Fundamental Beliefs
by SLWalker
Summary: What happens when monsters meet other monsters in the dark? When light becomes important? A Sabretoothcentric piece. Updated 21002... hard to believe I'm still finding errors...
1. Prologue

**_Fundamental Beliefs  
  
_**By: Stephanie Watson (SLWatson)  
Beta: Karen Walker (Serris)  
Editor: Danielle Cregan  
Final Revision Beta: 1Grrl4Vic  
  


_Disclaimer: You'll probably recognize everyone who belongs to Marvel. If you don't, they belong to me. Use them if you like, I don't mind in the least.  
  
Notes: This story is rated this high for a reason. I'm not going to list the reasons why, because I'm not going to diminish the impact. But for God's sake, _**HEED THE DAMN RATING!!!** If you're a minor, get out. If you have a weak stomach, get out. If you're easily squicked, get out. If you're looking for meaningless sex, go find a different story. This is not a pretty fic! As for the timeline, it's immediately after Sabretooth and Psylocke's showdown. After that, it's mostly What if...? and AU. I ignored the Operation: Zero Tolerance and Onslaught crossovers because I'm not clever enough to work 'em in. Fill in the gaps with whatever your imagination provides. On this fic, please ask me if you wanna archive it. I normally don't care, but with this one I'd like to know.  
  
Last chance to turn back if you can't take it, or if you're underaged.  
  
Still here? On with the show.  


  
- --------- - --  
  
  
Darkness and the stench of mankind's garbage.  The shin-deep water reeked of raw sewage and everything loathsome about the human race.  Surrounded in darkness, heavy and musty, each scent nearly overwhelming in itself, Victor Creed kept running.  
  
He could hear the rats scurrying along in the tunnels beneath New York City, and his own heartbeat, amplified in the confines of the enclosed area.  He could hear his own faster-than-normal breathing, but he still wasn't in any danger of exhaustion.  He could run for hours, and though he preferred the open air of the surface, he couldn't very well go up there.  
  
The X-Men were hunting, and for one of the few times that he could actively remember, he was the prey.  Usually it worked the other way around, and he was the hunter... the killer.  He could still smell Psylocke's blood on him, and the smell brought a feral grin to his face as he ran easily through the muck and mire.  That bitch deserved it.  They all did, in some way or another, and had he not been more concerned with escape, he would have given it to them, too.  
  
Except Tabitha... the grin fell momentarily.  He had been cruel to its best with her, and deep in his mind he felt some regret for it.  At the time, all he had aimed to do was get her pissed off enough to do exactly what she ended up doing, and then pain, red, and gutting the British/Asian slut.  But Boomer had treated him well enough, and even Sabretooth was not beyond some gratitude.  
  
Gratitude.  Heh... it was pitiful.  He shoved it aside as though it were the corpse of a hit he had pulled and kept running.  None of them, not even Tabitha, deserved gratitude.  They locked him away, chained him like an animal, and even in the end their whole intent was to make him supposedly competent to stand trial for his past crimes.  
  
Fuck 'em.  He knew exactly what he was doing every single time he took a life after he reached adulthood.  Even when he was caught in the rabid grip of bloodlust, he wasn't entirely without coherant thought.  He was ridding the world of another useless creature... fat and indolent in their rich luxuries, thinking that they, being humans, were the top of the food chain.  
  
Bull.  _He_ was at the top of the food chain.  He was the animal, the executioner, and the hunter.  
  
But now he was the prey.  
  
Pausing for a moment, Victor sniffed the air, trying to sort through the thousands of smells from both sewer and surface.  He couldn't catch their scent, but he knew they weren't too far behind.  Part of him wondered at confrontation, wanting more than anything to rip them apart like he had their team mate.  It would probably be ultimately suicidal, but that's not what kept him from standing his ground.  He wasn't afraid to die.  
  
He knew he didn't want to be locked away again, and that's what they could do.  
  
So he took one more moment, then headed off again.  He moved gracefully, even in water and blackness, and one could hardly attribute that predatory agility to someone so large and bulky.  But he was a hunter, and his movements reflected that.  As close to silent as any creature could get moving so quickly through water, his sharp green eyes darted around the area ahead.  Nothing.  
  
Tunnels branched off right and left, but Victor kept on the straight.  He knew his way through those tunnels, having been there before.  Another grin sneaked up on him as he recalled the massacre that had happened there, and the screams of fear.  That had been one of his more enjoyable jobs, helping to slaughter the Morlocks.  
  
A stray memory came up on him, followed by a feeling he wasn't used to... regret.  
  
He snarled to himself, forcing it back, behind the massive barriers he had for such weak-minded notions.  So far, so good.  No sounds of pursuit, no scents, no--  
  
He stopped short, bringing himself to a sharp halt and splashing water ahead a little louder than he would have preferred.  Cursing, he sniffed the air, catching an almost familiar scent -- almost, almost... he couldn't place it.  
  
Eyes narrowing, he started ahead slower.  His night vision was excellent, but there was so little light to work with even he couldn't see as far ahead as he needed to.  Nose twitching, body tense, Creed tried to get close enough to whatever it was to find out.  It wasn't one of the X-Men -- he was so used to their stench that there would be no mistaking it.  But it was familiar.  
  
A scratching noise behind him made him whirl around, angrily shoving his blond bangs back from where they kept insisting on falling in his eyes.  Lip pulled back in a snarl, fangs showing, he tried to see through the gloom to whatever had made that noise.  
  
Then the scent came stronger, and the hair on the back of his neck stood in response.  There wasn't much that could do that, but whatever creature this was coming from was so... unnatural, so twisted that Sabretooth couldn't even shake off the natural, instinctive fear it inspired.  He was a hunter, a killer, more beast than man for the most part... and every single animal instinct he possessed was screaming.  
  
Whoever -- whatever -- this was, it gave off that unnerving of a stench.  Growling into the blackness, Victor tried to draw them... it out, "Ya c'n come out, or ya c'n get ripped out."  
  
The voice that answered was silky smooth, and sent a shiver down Sabretooth's spine. "Oh come now, that's no way to speak to your host, is it?"  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Victor snarled, eyes moving quickly and his ears trying to get a direction.  No luck... the speaker could be anywhere in the echoing sewers.  
  
"Salvation?" the voice purred. "A nightmare, perhaps?  Or maybe just another fugitive?"  
  
"A coward?" Sabretooth taunted. He was an expert at mind games, and if this thing wanted to play mind games, he knew he could do it better. "Hidin' in the shadows like a rat or a roach?"  
  
"Oh, hardly.  Dear Victor, you wound me so."  
  
Somewhat startled, Creed asked, "How d'you know who I am?"  
  
"A grave encounter, if you will, many decades ago and in another... place."  The voice continued, almost musingly, "Or perhaps recently, though the dates are confusing when one's had temporal troubles."  Then it took on almost a cheerful tone. "No matter.  It wasn't you, honestly."  
  
Sabretooth backed up, fangs bared and claws out.  He didn't have time to waste by playing with riddles and he started to listen to his instincts.  They were telling him to run, and they finally overcame morbid curiosity.  He turned and headed back.  
  
Then the creature dropped in front of him.  Victor shied back, honestly surprised.  Not so much by the sudden appearance, but the face grinning back at him.  
  
Henry McCoy... but not.  Not the almost moronically cheerful blue-furred X-Man.  This Beast had dark fur, long fangs and claws, and eyes that gleamed with an insanity that even Creed didn't possess.  
  
Time was running out.  
  
Snarling savagely, Sabretooth struck out with his claws splayed, intending to slice the fur-covered adversary open.  He expected to feel those claws pass through flesh, muscle, expected McCoy's entrails to spill into a steaming heap on the floor.  
  
But the movement was in vain.  The beast leapt back easily, smiling almost benevolently.  "Is that honestly the best you can do, Victor?"  
  
"Not a fuckin' chance," came the growling response, and this time Sabretooth took a leap for the other creature, all claws out and ready.  
  
He didn't make it.  
  
The next moment, his face was shoved hard to the ground, and sewer water flowed over, threatening to drown him.  He struggled, but McCoy was heavy, and deprived of sight, sound and smell, Creed was fairly blind to strike back.  He was just about to get his arms under himself to push back above water when there was a strange tingling sensation in the back of his neck.  
  
Not even a full moment had passed before he blacked out.  
  
  
  
  



	2. Part I

  
  
Cold...?  
  
Damp.  Musty.  Sharp.  Unnatural.  
  
McCoy.  
  
He wasn't too far away.  Sabretooth snapped awake, more alert than most people were when waking up after being drugged.  He had to give the bastard that... whatever he had used was efficient.  Shaking his head to clear the last fogginess of the tranquilizer away, Victor immediately began getting his bearings.  
  
It was cold.  Not like winter cold, but more like a wet cold.  He could smell the sewage, but it was further away, so he wasn't in the tunnels anymore.  He could smell McCoy, and once again the hair rose on the back of his neck.  He was closer than the sewer pipes... too close.  
  
His eyes adjusted to the half light, and he took in his surroundings with the trained senses of a covert ops agent and the natural instincts of an animal.  Small, concrete or old brick, dim light coming in from the grated steel door not more than seven or eight feet to his right.  No furnishings, nothing... the room was empty save for its occupant.  
  
The reek of the Black Beast came in stronger, and Victor got to his feet smoothly, eyes narrowed.  Sure enough, the shadow fell across the floor as McCoy looked in, his voice almost gleefully commenting, "Awake so soon?  Remind me to rethink that formula."  
  
"You have about a minute ta let me out, or I'm gonna come through that door an' tear yer fuckin' head off," Victor said, his voice low and hard.  His muscles tensed as he prepared to do exactly that.  
  
"You're welcome to try, but I'm hardly concerned."  
  
That was it.  Sabretooth roared, throwing himself at the door with the speed and ferocity of an angry grizzly.  His shoulder hit the metal, but it didn't yield, didn't even shake aside from a slight vibration.  Brushing it off, he tried it again, but once again rebounded without leaving so much as a dent._  
_  
"It's taken me nearly ten years to scavenge enough titanium and adamantium to create that door, Victor," McCoy said, with detached arrogance oozing from every pore. "Originally it was intended for Logan, but alas, why chase him down when you practically land in my lap?"  
  
Creed finally stopped his futile attack on the door. "Whaddya want, anyway?"  
  
"Your DNA, for one." McCoy shrugged. "I imagine I'll find some uses for you.  In the meantime, however, you can sit back and be a good kitty cat."  
  
"Yer a fuckin' dead man." Victor growled, getting up to the grate, only inches from McCoy. "Just wait till I get loose -- an' it will happen -- an' I'll feed ya yer own heart."  
  
The tone in the monster's voice could turn a summer day cold, though it was obscenely cheerful. "Really?  We'll have to see, Victor... we'll have to see."  
  
  
  
Creed paced back and forth, nearly an entire day later.  He hadn't been able to find even so much as a crack in the wall -- McCoy certainly had thought this out well when he planned it.  Sabretooth and Wolverine, despite looking like exact opposites, were nearly the same.  Same healing factor, same heightened senses, same tenacity and cunning.  Before they had hated each other, they had been friends.  
  
Heh.  Things change.  
  
Little runt should be in there, not him.  Logan should be the caged animal, and Victor should be back out on the surface, ready to pull a job and bring in some cash.  Instead, he was underground and being held captive...  
  
...that son of a bitch would pay for this.  Yea, he would be looking at his own guts before Sabretooth ripped his eyes out.  The thought made him smile to himself, picturing that moment in all its gruesome glory -- from the way eyeballs feel when they collapse into a sticky, slippery mess to how the blood feels on his hands, warm and smelling metallic.  
  
Pausing for a moment to peer out the grate on the door, he could just catch a peek into the room where McCoy was working.  It was bright, and the faint scent of alcohol and other chemicals drifted in, stinging his sensitive nose.  The shadows fell on the wall, and Victor could put together where objects were.  He could see McCoy's shadow, moving swiftly back and forth.  He could hear the scientist talking to himself, but the words weren't in English.  Latin?  Creed didn't know.  All he knew was that this wasn't the same Henry McCoy he was used to dealing with.  He couldn't figure out who, or why, or how, but that didn't matter.  He was a captive who wasn't going to be a captive for long.  
  
Seething with frustration and pent up rage, he snarled out, "McCoy!"  
  
No answer.  The prick was ignoring him, and that just pissed Victor off even more.  He tried working on the door, getting his claws between the door and its frame, but it wouldn't budge.  After a few vicious moments he gave up.  
  
Pacing again, he thought of how he could get the scientist to open the door.  Baiting most likely wouldn't work.  The only thing that came to mind was an ambush... wait until the door was opened, and then rip and tear as hard, fast, and furious as he could.  
  
Settling back against the wall, eyes watching the door and with the poise of the patient hunter, Victor waited.  
  
  
  
"So tell me, how do you like your room?"  
  
"Go fuck yerself."  
  
"I'll take that as, 'Henry, it's less than five star and I'm very disappointed in my room service.'"  
  
Creed scowled darkly, but didn't reply to the barb.  There wasn't a whole lot he could do besides snarl, being restrained to a metal table.  He could barely move his head, and that was all he could move.  Hands, feet, legs, arms, all but nailed to the table.  His ambush plan hadn't even come close to success, as McCoy obviously had the good sense to shoot him through the grate with his little knock out drugs, and Victor woke up pinned.  
  
Lord only knew what the Black Beast had in mind for him, as he bounced around the room in sinister cheer.  He talked just for the sake of hearing his own voice, Sabretooth figured, for though most of the comments were directed at him, they didn't leave time for an answer.  
  
Not that he would do much more than growl or snarl.  All he could think about besides how damn cold metal is on skin was how good it would feel to rip McCoy into pieces so small that it would take a spatula to clean him up.  
  
"So then I wondered, how long would it take for that delightfully enhanced healing factor to compensate for a serious and potentially fatal injury?  I thought about a few possible methods to test the theory, but so many require hours of clean up... my, but I do hate messes."  
  
Victor tried to twist his head far enough to look at him, his blood running cold.  What the Hell was this lunatic going to try?  The monster finally came into view, his white fangs showing in a completely joyous smile.  It didn't take Vic more than a second or two to realize that whatever was going to happen, and whatever torment he was about to face, Henry McCoy would enjoy it.  A lot.  
  
McCoy only made one mistake in his plotting and planning.  Absent minded in his all-powerful glory, he reached across Victor to grab something, and the next thing he knew, he had a set of fangs near an inch long buried in his hand.  Letting out a scream that echoed, he tried to pull away.  
  
Sabretooth snarled, half-choked on fur and blood, but it was the only chance he would get to take something back from the bastard.  For the first time in years, the taste of blood didn't please him -- all he could think of doing was holding on.  He thought that for a full thirty seconds until the other massive hand closed around his throat, nails digging in hard, and he could feel his own blood running as thick as a river.  Another minute, and everything was black.  
  
  
  
"Wake up, mongrel."  
  
And that's what he did.  Slowly.  The foggy blackness gradually dispersed, and eventually Victor opened his eyes, annoyed by the delay in focus.  Back in the fuckin' cell... great. At least he could move there, though. McCoy had one hand bound, red spots soaking through the white bandage, and Sabretooth gave him a mocking grin. "What's wrong?  Bweak your widdle fingers?"  
  
McCoy bared his teeth, swiping his captive across the side of the head with his claws before stepping out of tooth range again. "You will learn your place, animal.  One way or another."  
  
Victor shook his head, feeling his healing factor closing the cuts and looked back up with hate shining in his eyes.  "I ain't the one they call Beast."  
  
This just seemed to enrage McCoy even further, and he barely stopped himself from rushing Sabretooth.  That would probably lead to another biting incident, and his hand was hurting badly from the last one.  Even a local anesthetic wasn't doing the job he wanted it to.  Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he said, "You'll find me much harder to deal with than my supposed 'twin'."  
  
"Yea?" Victor asked, carefully moving into a poised crouch.  He may have been chained to the wall, arms and neck, but he knew how to push the buttons now, and had every intention of doing it.  It didn't take him long to figure out that this was either a bitter clone, or some other freaky anomaly. "What's wrong, Beast?  Jealous?  'Cause he ain't the one stuck in th' sewers."  
  
McCoy's body went tense, and his eyes narrowed.  His captive certainly had a style to his mocking, and it went straight to where it was supposed to... attacking everything he hated and throwing it in his face. But he wouldn't for long. He was chained like the animal he was, and he would learn eventually who was in control.  
  
"'Course, he's better suited fer polite comp'ny, ain't he?"  Sabretooth said, casually, watching the reactions and smelling the anger in the air, like smoke rolling down a mountainside. "He's th' one that's respected, an' yer just pickin' at scraps an' livin' with rats.  I'd even bet--"  
  
A fearsome roar cut him off, and McCoy leapt on his prisoner in a berserker fury that even Victor hadn't expected.  Fangs, claws and blood, they both tore into each other with everything they had, though Sabretooth was at a disadvantage from the start.  He couldn't get his hands around quickly enough to claw before the beast was out of the way, and even when he could get his teeth into flesh, it wasn't enough.  
  
McCoy was yelling something, but was practically incoherent in rage. Victor bit back a yelp as a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, claws digging into his scalp, and yanked his head back.  His reach wasn't far enough to latch onto the hand, and he tried instead to grab the nearest possible flesh, tried to rip and tear.  But the monster shoved him down, face first, kneeling on one arm and holding the other down with his free hand.  Kicking wasn't doing much good, so after a moment of struggle, Victor stopped.  
  
"If you ever mention that again," McCoy growled, his voice low and soft, "I will do far worse than end your miserable life.  I will take you apart, one piece at a time."  
  
"I don't think ya have the balls," Creed challenged.  
  
"Test me, Victor."  McCoy smiled darkly, releasing the mane of hair and reaching back to take a thin blade from a holder on his belt.  
  
Victor tried to twist around and sink his teeth into flesh again.  
  
Stabbing pain, a flash of white, then nothing.  
  
  
  
_The mirror flowed, liquid silver. It flowed together, solidified, shattered, flowed again. Sometimes it shattered into near dust, other times it broke into bigger pieces, and sometimes it just cracked and he was staring at a twisted, warped reflection of himself._  
  
_"Victor...?  Shhh, honey, it's all right."  
  
"Ma...?"  
  
"Hold still."  
  
A whimper.  Pain.  Fear.  
  
No!!  
  
Shattered.  
  
He struck out with all he could, trying to drive the memories back.  Fragments of memories, like shards of thin metal, or like the razor sharp adamantium claws.  He shoved them back, buried them.  He didn't want to know -- didn't want to feel.  
  
"Vic!"  
  
Logan.  Hate rose thick in his throat, shot through his body like fire and ice, and he growled.  But Logan wasn't there.  He was shouting from across a river, trying to get the man who was once his best friend to wake up from a grenade blast.  
  
He couldn't wake up.  It _hurt_.  
  
Flowing.  
  
"Hey, boss."  
  
Oh no...  
  
Solid._  
  
  
  
"Birdy...?"  His own voice startled him.  Weak, more coarse than normal.  His body was tingling, like everything below his neck had fallen asleep and was just waking up again.  He tried to flex, move his legs or arms, but they were uncooperative, unresponsive.  
  
Finally Victor opened his eyes, flinching at the light that flooded in.  Slowly they adjusted and came into focus -- he wasn't in the cell, but back on the table.  He couldn't pick his head up, but he could see McCoy looking at a monitor out in his peripheral vision, and the thought crossed his mind that it was better than the beast paying attention to him.  
  
McCoy moved around, not really paying his 'patient' any heed.  He knew Sabretooth was awake, but he was far more interested in the various tissue samples he had gleaned from the brute.  There were several things that caught his eye, but the healing factor interested him most of all.  If he could somehow duplicate the chain that granted it, he could vastly improve his beloved creations.  He had wanted to do the same with the infinities in his own universe, but both Logan and Creed hadn't been so easily available.  In fact, Henry could only remember one instance he had encountered his native Victor Creed, and under his fur he still wore a few scars.  But here he had a prime opportunity.  
  
Frowning, Sabretooth closed his eyes again.  There was no use straining them trying to see, and he would be able to hear McCoy approach.  He sure as Hell could smell him; the Black Beast who reeked of chemicals, of sweat.  Even at his worst, Creed made an effort not to stink, simply because he wouldn't be able to stalk anything if it could smell him coming.  Of course, in his current situation, bathing was the last thing on his mind.  He figured out that McCoy must have either cut or badly damaged his spinal cord, and his healing factor was still trying to make up for it.  And it was working... he could feel his limbs, but didn't have any success in moving them.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He couldn't fight back.  He was helpless.  
  
The monster finally moved closer, and Victor forced his eyes open again, glaring. "Havin' yer jollies, _Beast_?"  
  
A hand swung down and raked across his face, drawing blood and temporarily stunning Creed. "Do I have to begin removing appendages?"  
  
Trying to shake off the blow without being able to move his head, Victor shut up.  The idea of having an arm or leg cut off didn't appeal to him -- limbs take forever to regenerate -- and he settled into icy silence.  
  
"You wouldn't believe just how fortunate you are.  You'll be here to witness the birth of my latest and greatest creations."  McCoy said, beckoning to someone out of Creed's line of sight.  
  
A small woman walked into view, her thin black hair hanging in loose threads from her balding scalp.  But that wasn't her most distinguishing feature... it was her pitch black eyes, like dried magma.  There was no life in those eyes.  No spark, no emotion -- a void like a black hole.  Victor almost shivered, and probably would have, if his body had been more under his control.  It was one thing when eyes like that stared back from a corpse, but another when they were part of an obviously living being.  She had no scent; no scent he could pick up, anyway.  She was there, but the only thing telling him that were his eyes.  
  
"This is Uriel.  She's among my quieter children, but no less perfect."  McCoy preened, patting the woman on the shoulder. "She'll also be the first to receive my treatments, hopefully rendering her with the same wonderful healing factor you have."  
  
The woman's expression didn't change, nor did she even look down at Victor.  He ground his teeth, wondering what the frail could do aside from look like a corpse and smell like emptiness.  It didn't take him long to come to the realization that he didn't want to know.  If McCoy's behavior was any indicator, it was probably something pretty fucking miserable.  
  
"Ah, but enough of my self-indulgences.  Feeling any better?"  A weak but hateful snarl. "That would be a yes, I'm going to assume."  
  
"You got anythin' better ta do with yerself?"  
  
"Plenty, I assure you, but none of those things are quite so important as your comfort," McCoy snapped back, sarcastically.  
  
Creed raised a lip at him, but he could feel himself starting to slip back to oblivion.  Healing factor or no, he was a long way from recovered, and unconsciousness was actually preferable to the monster's company.  Even with the nightmares.  
  
  
  
_Swirling, slowly and gently. The silver moved smoothly, blanketing, solifidying._  
  
_"So what's the occasion?"  
  
"Why's there have to be an occasion?"  He adjusted the collar of his black dress shirt, then buttoned the bottom two buttons of the black suit jacket.  "Okay, so maybe I aced the rich boy, his wife, his mistress, an' his fuckin' hamsters.  Put me in a good mood."  
  
The little blonde telepath giggled, brushing a few stray hairs from his shoulder. "His hamsters?  Damn, boss, I know you didn' wanna leave witnesses, but ain't that a bit much?"  
  
"Nah."  Victor gave himself one last glance in the mirror, then turned. "This respectable enough?"  
  
Birdy smiled, tilting her head. "Yea, but a white shirt would look better."  
  
He frowned.  White shirts had their place in profession, but when it came to his personal time, he definitely preferred black. "Eh, whaddyou know anyway?  C'mon."  
  
Cracked.  
  
Usually screwing around was his idea, and in those instances, it was a wild affair.  Biting, hair pulling, yelling, scratching... well, she clawed him.  He refrained from clawing back because she'd never live through it.  That girl was a wild fuck if there ever was one, though.  He could always pretend that that was all part of the job, but really it was just a sort of accepted side bonus.  
  
Except when she came to him.  Then it was something different, and considerably more rare.  No wild antics then... no, she was like sunlight, warm and gentle.  Not a single sound, not even a whisper.  Just her, and he was practically helpless to do anything -- almost like being completely enthralled, lost in a wave of sensations, and even more frighteningly, emotions.  
  
He always slept real well then.  It was the only time the guard went down and he wasn't keeping one eye open.  He'd just curl up next to her and sleep like the dead, and in those brief moments he completely forgot who he was and why he was there and he forgot everything but how peaceful it was.  He found out later she was all but controlling his mind, telepathically reaching in and coaxing out what few gentle aspects there were.  
  
And it was the only time he didn't take it out on her for going into his head without his consent.  He always spent the next day in a completely foul mood, stalking the house growling, and striking out at anything that dared irritate him more, but he avoided Birdy.  Maybe from a twisted sense of gratitude... there were so few moments of peace where there wasn't a bloodlust to fight, or a job to pull, or anything but a warm body to sleep against.  Even if it meant being controlled by her.  
  
In his dreams, he's sleeping next to her again... soft skin, hair laying across his chest, and she thinks he's out, but this time he's awake.  He could kill her in a moment, take her life from her with one claw stroke.  But he won't.  He'll just listen to her breathing in the quiet, and let himself miss her, just for a little while.  
  
Just for now.  
  
Shattered.  
  
_  
  
Well, he could move again.  That was a start.  He didn't need to open his eyes to figure out that he was back in his cell.  He could feel the thick metal collar around his neck, and the two bands binding his wrists, and this time, his legs were chained too.  
  
It was still cold, but he could live with it.  He was starving, wishing for some water, and pretty miserable, but there was a small sense of relief in not being pinned to the table like a bug in some brat's collection.  He could feel what was left of his clothes, torn and filthy.  
  
Mostly, Victor felt rage.  Black burning rage, directed at his tormentor.  Slowly sitting up, he scowled at how damn weak he was feeling, both from injury and starvation, but that fucker would learn quick that Sabretooth wasn't going to die just because he wasn't getting three square meals a day.  He wouldn't give McCoy that satisfaction.  
  
Not a full hour had passed before the monster walked in, apparently secure in the knowledge that his lab rat was well bound.  "Welcome back to the land of the living.  If _you_ could call it that."  
  
"Whaddya want, McCoy?"  
  
"Merely checking to see if you're feeling better.  That's so very important to me, you know."  
  
Victor sneered, flashing his fangs. "Come over here, an' you c'n see how I'm feelin'."  
  
"Forgive me, my feral friend, if I decline," McCoy answered, amiably.  He enjoyed the ability to gloat so close to a being who, in better conditions, had torn through so many others.  
  
Sabretooth smiled, his face twisting into a bitter and ruthless grin.  Fuck it all, he wanted to spill blood.  He didn't care if he had to pay the price with pain, just so long as McCoy would be hurting too.  "Forgiven, Beast.  Afterall, you an' me aren't that different, are we?"  
  
McCoy caught himself before he could snarl at the insult, and forced his voice to take an even edge. "We are more different than night and day.  More different than black and white."  
  
"No we're not.  Yer an' animal, jus' like me.  Nothin' more'n a pitiful animal, a beast," Victor laughed.  He could smell the tension mounting, and reveled in it.  
  
"I am not an animal!  I am a man, which is far more than could be said for you!"  
  
"A man?  Ya have teeth, ya have claws, ya have more fur'n a fuckin' buffalo.  Face it, Beast, yer even less of a man than I am."  
  
Something snapped, almost audibly.  Victor could sense it, the snap of someone who wasn't stable to begin with going over the deep end.  He lashed out when McCoy leapt on him, scoring a cut across the furred chest before they both slammed back against the wall.  He tried to twist enough to sink his fangs in, and to bring his claws around for a fatal swipe, but McCoy did weigh more, and without even drawing blood a second time, he was pinned.  The monster's blood dripped down, the only sound besides the harsh breathing of two people locked in hatred.  
  
The blue eyes that looked down at him were raging, but the Black Beast's voice was surprisingly calm as he said, "If you want an animal, Victor, I will show you one."  
  
"I want you dead," Creed spat back.  
  
"No such luck," McCoy said, almost gently.  He managed to grab the chains that held Sabretooth's arms in one hand, behind the other man's back, bringing his other hand up to run a claw down the captive's cheek, drawing a line of blood.  
  
Victor snapped at him, missing the digit by less than an inch.  An uneasy feeling crept in with the rage, making his hair stand on end.  As the blood dripped for a moment, then the cut sealed itself, the feeling grew into fear.  He couldn't... he wouldn't... Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be far away from McCoy.  Forget killing him.  He wanted out, and badly.  
  
Those eyes wandered over his face, a cold light shining in them.  Down his throat, to his heaving chest, and he knew McCoy could smell the fear, just as clearly as Victor could smell the sickening arousal.  Creed struggled slightly, knowing that it was useless.  
  
"An animal," McCoy murmured, briefly running the same claw across his throat, once again pulling away when Victor snapped at him.  Nearly an entire minute passed in heated silence, then McCoy swiftly grabbed a handful of the blond hair and slammed Creed's head back against the wall.  
  
Shaking off the blow in less than another minute, Creed growled low, feeling the weight of the Beast pushing down against him; a dead, cold weight that seemed to push the air from his lungs and then usher horrible thoughts into his brain.  The monster had taken advantage of his brief blackout and pinned him much more securely to the floor. He tried to fight, but there wasn't much room to even breathe.  He was laying face down, his own hands pinned under the crushing weight, claws useless.  
  
He could feel McCoy's claws at his back, ripping the fabric of his clothes and drawing a line of blood down... down to his lower back.  The blue-black creature smirked audibly, pulling and ripping at the remaining clothes covering Creed from behind, leaving the pale body naked.  It was then that Victor struggled as hard as he could, not out of violence, but honest fear.  
  
He still didn't get anywhere.  McCoy's claws dug into his side, one arm wrapped around to keep his arms pinned. He could feel that damned fur against his back, and hot breath against his neck. He dug his own claws into the only thing he could, the ground, and tore deep furrows into the dirt, half-growling and half-whimpering.  Creed was never one to take helplessness well... let alone rape: Always on the giving end, never the side of the victim.  
  
Until now.  
  
The ripping pain as the beast shoved the pulsating agent into his body wrenched a howl from both of them; one in triumph, one in helpless desperation and rage.  Eyes squeezed closed, Creed tried to throw the monster off, but he couldn't... he couldn't breathe, couldn't fight.  The smell of his own blood flooded all of his senses, and pain made his head spin.  He tried to block out the agony, like fire, tried to block out the grunts and the different hurt from McCoy's claws, tearing down his back.  
  
Each move from the man above him brought some sort of reaction from Sabretooth, whether it was a whimper or a growl, and each sound that emanated from the lighter man thrilled Beast.  Smirks, cries of joy, shouts of glee -- they all came in a low, yearning voice that tore through Sabretooth's mind like a knife, sharp and gleaming white hot.  
  
Saying that time passed slowly for Victor Creed would be an understatement; he was almost certain that it wasn't passing at all...  Just standing still over one horribly excruciating moment.  The beast was taking every bit of his strength and pumping it into his prisoner, and Sabretooth pushed his own nose into the dirt, hoping to drown out at least one sense, but in all reality, forcing himself to slip off into unconsciousness.  
  
  
  
He came back to Hell the next morning, just in time to be de-clawed and de-fanged.  
  
  
  



	3. Part II

  
  
The passage of time after that was sketchy at best.  Creed might have measured it by how many times he had his canines and claws yanked out, but even that wasn't entirely reliable.  Most of the time he spent in oblivion, which was more than fine by him.  At least there he could escape the humiliations and hurts, and find some semblance of comfort.  Be it in the few lighter moments of his otherwise violent and hateful past, or in simple blackness, he still preferred it to the cell.  
  
To describe the torment would have been beyond him anyway.  Rage had a lot to do with it, but so did humility.  The Dark Beast wanted control... and he had control.  Victor's most precious defenses were yanked away; the fangs and claws that were his last resort and best weapons.  That, in truth, did more damage to his will than the rape -- not only was he tormented, but he was defenseless against it.  Even if he were to escape, he couldn't honestly expect to win.  
  
Sabretooth's entire world comprised of that small space.  Even the sewers that he could still smell seemed so far away, as though nothing had existed before this torment, and nothing would exist after.  He didn't taunt anymore, didn't even have the strength to struggle when McCoy played his games.  The only defiance he had left was not crying out at the pain... that was all.  He didn't bother going tense, and the attacks became less frequent as the Black Beast found other things to occupy himself.  
  
Though Sabretooth did finally find out what his little dead woman walking could do.  He found that out the first time McCoy took a pair of pliers, just like his own father had, and yanked his canines.  One touch from her, and he was frozen like a statue.  Prone and completely at the madman's mercy.  It didn't do anything for the agony, though, and for some reason he found it very disheartening to know that she would have his healing factor.  
  
All but brief periods of consciousness were spent curled in the corner of the cell, his body shielded as well as it could be from the cold and torment.  And he nearly wished for death.  McCoy didn't really have any use for him anymore, and they both knew that, but Creed had a sickening feeling that he kept him there simply for his ego.  Even in the near empty tunnels, Sabretooth wasn't unknown.  To have not an army, but only one twisted scientist breaking him so easily was a boast.  
  
It changed one day, though.  What day he didn't know, and he really only noted the change with mild interest.  One day, he wasn't alone anymore.  
  
  
  
Doctor Henry McCoy was an X-Man, a renowned biochemist, a philosopher, and a dreamer.  Unfortunately, now he was a prisoner as well, of his alternate self.  He had been grabbed alone, on his way back from the local pharmacy.  Normally the Shi'ar technology of the mansion could deal with most injuries, but the need for simple band-aids couldn't be remedied by alien means, only good old-fashioned trips to the store.  
  
He had been shocked.  Well, that was actually understating it quite a bit.  He didn't even have time to begin to decipher the jumble of thoughts and theories before his dark twin leapt on him and beat him unconscious.  When he woke up, he was aching right to the tips of his blue fur, and he wasn't alone.  
  
The second shock.  Sabretooth.  The last time he had seen the man was eight or nine months earlier, just before the animal nearly disemboweled Betsy Braddock.  Henry was a gentle man, but even he hated Victor Creed for that atrocity.  He stared balefully at the still body across the cell, streaked in dirt and blood... apparently Creed had seen far better days.  He had lost quite a bit of weight and his healing factor wasn't likely working well under the brutal conditions -- there were still deep cuts scoring him right and left, healing fast but not nearly so fast as normal.  
  
Keeping a good distance between them, Hank tried to ignore the fact that he was a captive and instead thought about who this twin of his could be.  Several ideas were discarded quickly, and he was just about to work through the next when he caught a breath of movement from the opposite corner, and heard the deeper intake of air.  Looking back, though still full of anger, he found himself looking into Creed's eyes.  
  
If he didn't know better, he would have thought perhaps this wasn't the same man.  He didn't have any of the insanity that Hank had grown to recognize, but instead looked just tired.  Worn down and near broken.  There wasn't much life left in him, Hank realized with a slight frown... even with the natural hate he felt, he also felt a sort of sympathy.  Then the green eyes slid closed again.  
  
Jaw knotted, Beast finally asked softly, "Creed?"  
  
Victor didn't open his eyes again to answer, "Beast."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Damned if I know."  
  
"Charming as always, I see," Hank said, sarcasm lacing his voice.  He couldn't help it.  His mind flashed back to Psylocke, laying in Boomer's arms with blood gushing everywhere and her intestines starting to slip out.  He waited for a reply, but there was none, and in a way, he was disappointed.  He couldn't harm the other man for his crimes, but part of him wished to.  
  
Part of him didn't.  The part of him that was a doctor, a healer, felt pity on the other man trapped there.  After a moment, he swallowed his anger again. "Is there anything I could do?"  
  
"Not 'nless ya wanna off me."  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"Figured."  
  
Henry settled back into the silence.  He wasn't chained himself, but he had no doubts that once the alternate version of himself could come up with some strong enough shackles, he would be trussed up like a dog.  Frowning, he finally got to his feet and tested the door, throwing all of his nearly three hundred and fifty pounds at it.  It didn't give under his heavy shoulder, merely stood in metallic grace, undamaged.  
  
"I tried that," Victor commented, opening one eye to watch.  He smirked slightly to himself at the action, but even that was hollow.  He couldn't honestly say he felt anything solid towards Beast.  Not anger, not compassion, not even amusement.  "Ya'd think that if there was a way ta escape, I woulda found it by now."  
  
Hank sighed heavily, leaning against the door. "I prefer to keep some hope."  
  
"As you should," his black twin said from behind him.  Hank leapt away from the door, turning, and the other Beast grinned in mockingly. "Making friends?  Getting along well?"  
  
"Well enough," Hank answered mildly.  He wasn't about to tell the madman about just how much contempt he had for his cellmate... it could make life unbearable very quickly.  
  
"Wonderful.  Victor?"  
  
Sabretooth didn't answer -- he never did.  He knew that it would only lead to some sort of anguish, be it mental or physical, so he kept his mouth shut and ignored McCoy.  Only then could he honestly say he had any real feeling, and that was hate.  Unguided hatred.  
  
"Still giving me the silent treatment?  I'm wounded."  McCoy smirked, throwing a few pieces of well-rolled bread into the cell, as if to feed birds. "Nonetheless, it's of no great concern.  I'm afraid I'll be leaving for a few days, on personal business, if you could call it that, but I will be back to check on you."  
  
"Where are you going?"  Hank asked, though he had a sneaking suspicion he already knew the answer.  
  
"That is none of your concern."  And with that, the monster walked away.  
  
  
  
Nearly a day passed in complete silence.  Victor wasn't about to start any sort of conversation with his unwilling roomie; it would probably lead to some sort of anger or some sort of pity, and to be honest, he wanted neither.  He did stay awake more, though, mostly for the sake of watching Henry try to find a way out.  It was almost interesting, the way the scientist's mind worked... if there was one thing Creed respected about Hank, it was his intelligence.  
  
Beast was more talkative by nature, and eventually tried to strike on a topic. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"Since 'bout six or seven hours after I got away from you," Victor replied, finding no need to be dishonest.  It wasn't as if it mattered either which way.  
  
Hank frowned.  That was a long time to be trapped, tormented, and otherwise miserable.  Still, he had a sneaking suspicion that most of Sabretooth's life was miserable, so it might not have made a difference anyway. "That long?"  
  
Creed didn't even bother answering that.  He really wasn't in a talking mood, especially with one of the people who held him captive before this.  
  
"I don't think we mistreated you," Hank said, softly.  
  
"Prison's a prison," Sabretooth answered, flatly. "Not a whole lotta difference."  
  
"Isn't there?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Hank let out a frustrated sigh.  Thickheaded, that's what Creed was, and always had been.  The differences between his incarceration at the mansion and in this place were vast.  "Why not?"  
  
There was a flicker of annoyance in his voice as Victor replied, "Don't you have anything better ta do than psychoanalyze me?"  
  
"Not particularly," Beast said, civilly but bitterly.  
  
"Find somethin'."  
  
Hank sat back down from his anxious pacing, rubbing his eyes.  He wanted to be back in his lab, working diligently on the cure for the Legacy Virus, not locked away underground by an evil 'twin' with a murderer as a cellmate.  Rather than let himself get discouraged, he let his mind slip back to his latest calculations.  There were so many things left to try, so many things left to do; it angered him to have to lose precious time away from a cure that could save millions of lives.  
  
Kwannon died of that disease.  Though he hadn't gotten time to know her, he knew that beneath the arrogance and sex appeal, there was a woman of honor.  Illyana had died of that disease; a little girl who had seen more life than so many others, and who had seen life as children often do, as it truly is.  
  
And Moira, a normal woman with an extraordinary will, who would die if a cure was not found.  She was a brilliant scientist, and even more so, a surprisingly sympathetic human being.  He was hard pressed to imagine many with more love for their work, and yet more respect for life.  Perhaps that respect was hard learned, but even at that, it was still to be admired.  
  
It made Henry McCoy want to rip down the walls, to tear away from the miserable prison.  He wanted to go home to his family and his work.  Without actually daring to think it, he hoped that they would look for him, but he kept the true nature of his captivity hidden even from his own thoughts.  In his heart, he knew that the other Beast was going to steal his life, his identity, and take his place for some evil means... but he dare not think of that.  
  
He dare not think of that monster sitting at the dinner table with the people who mean the most to him.  
  
Standing again in agile frustration, he went back to pacing the small confines.  Hank had a temper, though it rarely ever got out, and he could feel the helplessness and the anger at that helplessness building up in him.  He tried... Lord, he tried not to think about what would happen to them, but it came anyway.  Horrible images of death, and worse, of slow cruelty.  He could imagine what they would look like when it turned out to be him who was hurting them, even if he was actually elsewhere.  
  
The anger hit a breaking point, and Beast slammed a massive fist into the wall, feeling the pain fly up his arm as the bones absorbed the impact and the skin on his knuckles tore.  It just made him more angry, and he hit the wall again and again, until finally, spent and half-sobbing, he slid to the ground.  
  
"Waste o' energy."  
  
Hank snapped his head up, locking gazes with Victor.  He didn't know what was worse -- the flat tone of voice, or the complete lack of sympathy in the other man.  Grinding his teeth to keep from doing something he'd regret, he answered, "Unlike some, I prefer to fight rather than to cower."  
  
Something unreadable crossed Creed's face, then he smirked. "Yea?  What good's it gonna do ya?  Make ya feel better?"  His tone grew colder. "Or did it just remind you that yer trapped in here, an' that thing's out there takin' yer life from ya?"  
  
Hank couldn't think to ask how Creed might have come to the same conclusions.  The words stung, like lashes from a cat o' nine tails.  "Damn you, Creed."  
  
"Damn me?"  Creed raised one eyebrow, a mocking grin crossing his sharp features. "How's it feel ta be on the other side o' the fence, Doc?  Ta be the one who's helpless an' humiliated?"  
  
"You were never helpless, or humiliated."  Hank answered, fighting with everything he had to keep from losing it.  
  
"Yea?"  Victor sat up slowly, still curled up as well as he could manage.  It took more effort than he'd let on to pull that, but he would be damned if he was ever going to be on anything less than equal ground with any of the X-Men again. "I came ta you fer help.  I got locked in a basement fer that trouble.  Add salt ta the wound, every time I did somethin' you didn't like, I got kicked around.  Real easy ta fight back chained, ain't it?"  
  
"You didn't want to be helped," Hank spat back. "You wanted an easy fix with no trouble to yourself.  Sadly, Sabretooth, real life doesn't work that way."  
  
The same unreadable look. "Fuck you.  I was more'n willin' ta do fuckin' anything I could, but then I got treated like a dog.  Jus' like I am here."  
  
"Treated like a dog?!" Beast's voice rose a notch, as he looked at the other man incredulously.  
  
"Like a dog, McCoy," Vic answered, voice low, as he leaned forward slightly.  For the first time in months, he felt anger at someone other than his captor. "No better'n what I'm treated like now.  Taken fer a walk, kicked around when I misbehaved, an' tossed a bone when I jumped through hoops for ya."  
  
"Hardly."  
  
"Yea.  Exactly like that."  A cold sneer snuck up on him. "Wanna know why I gutted that purple-haired bitch? 'Cause she had it comin'."  
  
Hank howled in anger, hit right where it hurt.  Before he could even stop himself, he was across the cell and staring down at the face of the man who had caused him and his family suffering in so many ways.  "How dare you?' he asked, softly, tears welling up in rage.  
  
Victor narrowed his eyes up at him, wishing he had the strength to throw Hank across the room... Hell, he wished he had the strength to even move the heavier man. "How dare I?"  He scoffed, then snarled, "How dare you!  Yer a fuckin' hypocrite, an' nothin' more."  
  
Hank clenched his fists, jumping away before he lost control of his temper and put Creed out of his misery.  Over and over in his mind he repeated his Hippocratic oath.  
  
Creed picked himself up again, crouched low like a tiger. "She thought she was th' shit, didn' she?  Miss ninja telepath.  Not like she was takin' on a better foe, eh?  Jus' an animal."  
  
"A monster," Hank whispered, remembering the sole and most impacting glimpse he had into Creed's mind.  
  
"Yer right," Victor said, frighteningly calm. "A monster, McCoy.  A brutal killer who never felt a single thing fer a single person he took the life of."  
  
"Why...?"  It was all Beast could do to ask that.  
  
This time the look became recognizable; a mixture of regret and longing, a touch of honest anger, and of bitterness. "'Cause that's exactly what ya want me ta be."  
  
_  
  
The mirror flowed together, solid.  Yellow-blond hair, green eyes, white fangs as sharp as well-kept knives and easily as deadly.  High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, heavy jaw, and a nose that had been broken more than once.  Stick him in the right gear, he could have easily passed for a Viking.  
  
Shattered.  
  
A piece of silver here, there, some coated in blood.  
  
Flowing.  
  
Distorted, but clean.  Purified silver, reflecting light in a dance.  Constantly in motion, little whirls and streams of it making myriad patterns.  Almost enchanting.  
  
Solid.  
  
A man.  Late twenties, wearing flannel and with an ax hanging from a belt.  No feverish bloodlust, no wild insanity, just a sort of normal, live and let live type of look.  A quirky grin, relaxed and almost peaceful.  Reconciled man and animal, all in one.  
  
Cracked.  
  
Fire.  Yelling in the night, smoke so thick that it choked and blinded without so much as a break, black and rolling.  Anger and rage, monster screaming for blood and man just feeling betrayal.  
  
Shattered.  
  
Blood everywhere, a red haze.  An arm here, an arm there, body parts strewn halfway across a clearing.  Sirens far off in the distance, whimpers from the few who would be dead before they could ever get there.  
  
Flowing.  
  
Solid._  
  
  
  
Consciousness was never a terrific thing.  As far as Creed was concerned, it was hugely overrated, and frustrating to boot.  He couldn't really remember a period of his life he spent more time unconscious than the past few months, but then, he couldn't really remember being that helpless and vulnerable either.  Except maybe in the basement.  
  
Hank was pacing about, as he seemed to do more often than not, trying his hardest to keep from getting too depressed.  He glanced over, brow furrowing in a manner that bespoke frustration. "Welcome back."  
  
Victor scoffed, "...to Hell."  
  
"Are you always this cheerful, or is this a special occasion?" Beast asked tiredly, sitting down against the opposite wall.  
  
"Who, me?  Mr. Sunshine all th' time."  Sabretooth smirked.  Ask a stupid question, expect a stupid answer.  
  
Hank sighed.  There were probably a million people he would rather have been locked away with.  Any of the X-Men, Magneto... even the Blob would be better company.  At least he could appreciate a good joke, or tell a good joke.  But Sabretooth?  A creature who killed without regret, pure violence in human form.  What happens when the perfect hunter and animal is combined with a very flawed man.  
  
It was going to be a _long_ incarceration.  
  
"Yer twin back yet?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Prolly makin' nice with the rest o' the X-Geeks," Creed commented, almost to himself.  
  
Hank scowled across at him. "I understand that you're naturally a foul mouthed, taunting bastard, Herr Toothmonger, but I would appreciate it if you could refrain from being a complete _ass_ for just a short while."  
  
That actually made Victor smile slightly.  He couldn't help it -- Beast was amusing when he was pissed off. "Why?  Offendin' ya?"  
  
"Annoying me, frankly."  
  
"Awwww," Creed said wickedly, "poor baby."  
  
Hank sighed again, a world weary sigh.  Harris's Hannibal Lecter would be better company.  Jack the Ripper would be... wait, for all he knew, Sabretooth _was_ Jack the Ripper.  Imitating Creed, he asked, "Don't ya have anything better ta do?"  
  
Vic snorted in contempt. "Nah, ya gotta get more of a rough tone."  
  
"I think you missed my point."  
  
A grin. "Yea, so?"  
  
"Well, I'm glad one of us is amused."  Henry settled back further, closing his eyes.  The bread hadn't lasted long, they still didn't have any water, and he could feel hunger eating away at him.  It made a bad situation seem even worse and he frowned to himself. "What are you to him?"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
Hank opened his eyes, looking across again. "Guinea pig, hostage, trophy?"  
  
Creed actually flinched, and replied after a moment, "Conquest."  
  
Beast frowned deeper, puzzled by the reaction.  It was sort of cryptic, really, and he left it at that, trying to figure out exactly what Sabretooth meant by 'conquest'.  
  
  
  
When the Black Beast approached, a tidy few days later, he was no longer black and just barely a beast.  Actually, more accurately, he was the Beast... a near perfect copy of the Hank McCoy he was holding hostage.  He grinned in at his two captives through the grate, eyes sparkling in an almost mischievous way.  
  
The sight of him brought anger burning into Hank's throat, worse than vodka on it's way back up.  It was like looking into the mirror in one of those fun houses... seeing his own features twisted in an evil smile, his own eyes alight with a coldness he could never manage.  It made his stomach turn to think of how easy it would be for the monster to stroll into the mansion, simple as walking into a grocery store.  
  
"What, no congratulations?" McCoy asked, looking in on his two animals. "It took me quite some time to manage this little miracle. It's quite a handsome color, I think... perhaps I'll keep it."  
  
Hank sneered at him viciously, and Victor made no effort to reply.  Saying anything would just add to the madman's gloating, and neither of them wanted to give him any more joy than he saw fit to take by force.  
  
The Dark Beast chuckled to himself, taking out a set of keys. He needed to provide them with at least enough water and food to survive, though he could have honestly cared less about Sabretooth.  But Hank was a valuable hostage, should his ruse at the X-Mansion fail, and he wouldn't be worth much dead.  
  
Hank looked up at the sound of keys, going tense.  Here was his chance to overcome his dark doppleganger.  Shooting a glance over at Creed, he noted his cellmate wide awake, though still keeping relatively motionless.  If worse came to worst, the both of them together stood a chance to overthrow their captor.  
  
When the door opened, Hank McCoy was in motion.  He was as swift as a man could be, even more quick and agile than Sabretooth was at his best, and it reflected in his movements.  He was across the space in the blink of an eye, thrusting his hand between the door and the frame, opening the space.  
  
The pain when the door forced down on his fingers nearly lifted him out of his skin.  He cried out involuntarily, feeling the bones break under the pressure, and tried hopelessly to pull away from it.  A moment later the door opened abruptly, smacking him in the face and he felt his nose give in as well.  
  
The monster followed quickly, leaping on Hank with a snarl.  Still reeling, Beast did what he could to defend himself from the rain of blows and keep from falling to unconsciousness.  But blackness was overtaking him, and with failing eyes he could barely see the flash as Creed called on strength born of pure rage and will, roaring and leaping on his assailant.  Then there was nothing more.  
  
  
  
Life filtered back slowly to Hank, beginning with his own pain.  He felt it radiating through his heavy body, as though a good half of his nerve cells were on fire.  His face hurt quite a bit, reminding him of a broken nose.  He couldn't really flex his right hand, and it likewise was screaming in protest of the injuries.  It was all he could do to open his eyes and look at the ceiling.  
  
The lighter and thinner fur on his face was matted through with blood that had come from his nose, but other than that, there were no breaks in his skin that he could feel.  He reached up with his left hand, very lightly feeling the extent of the wound, but stopped when his stomach heaved from the torment.  
  
A few deep breaths made the pain fade to a more tolerable level, and gingerly he picked himself up, doing all he could to keep from moving his hand more than necessary.  It came as some relief that he still wasn't chained, and that his dark twin was gone.  A jug of water sat nearby, along with most of a loaf of old looking bread.  
  
Blinking in the almost blackness, he could just make out Sabretooth against the opposite wall, still and silent.  His memory came back, and he could vaguely recall the other man leaping on McCoy before he had blacked out.  But Hank knew on gut instinct alone that it wasn't for his sake that Creed had decided to attack -- it was because he had had the opportunity to spill blood, and used it.  
  
Even with that knowledge, he felt a pang of concern.  Slowly he made his way over, his eyes finally making use of the light that was coming in from beyond the door.  
  
With the trained gaze of a doctor and the sudden rush of realization that made him retch, he realized exactly what Victor had meant by 'conquest'.  
  
It wasn't much to assume that Sabretooth was hanging on by threads. He had been torn down the back, long slashes that still bled slightly, even with his healing factor doing what it could to piece him back together.  That was bad.  What was worse was the blood running across his thighs, all of it collecting in a pool.  And what made Hank feel like he had been knifed through the heart wasn't that, but the blood dried on his bottom lip... where he had bitten through in a last ditch effort of pride to keep from crying in pain.  Suddenly 'conquest' became crystal clear.  
  
Moving as quickly as he could with his own injuries, he began assessing the situation more clinically.  Heart beating, but weakly... still breathing raggedly.  Deep in shock, probably dangerously close to falling into a coma.  Bleeding internally, no doubt, but without equipment, Hank couldn't do anything about that.  Beast tore the long sleeve of his shirt off, doing what he could to stop the blood streaming lightly from Creed's ruined back, hoping that it wouldn't be too little, too late.  
  
  
  
_Shattered.  
  
The mirror lay in pieces so small they weren't much more than glitter on the ground.  Red tainted glitter, catching light, reflecting it, thrown pinpricks of it across the otherwise black place.  
  
Slowly, much more slowly than normal, the mirror shifted, flowed.  Sluggishly it began the process again.  
  
Shouting for backup became audible, but it was distant, as though in a long tunnel.  As the mirror solidified, it became a clear image.  An older Victorian-style house in Virginia, where he had been hired to kill the owner for intruding on another's drug run.  He hadn't had any trouble with the guards... they died swiftly and violently, the last thing they knew of existence being agony.  
  
The feeling of rage and bloodlust pounded through his veins, dazing him.  The man retreated and the monster came forth, spilling blood, and the man laughed at it while the monster needed it.  With every kill it became more intense, more crippling.  Suddenly he wasn't enjoying it anymore, he was fearing it.  
  
He ripped through a little girl before he even realized it, and then turned to her parents.  Both of them were dead in moments, and he was literally covered in blood of at least a dozen people.  It soaked through his hair, turning the blond into a dirty red and matting it into lashes.  He had accomplished his job, but he needed more.  
  
The man was afraid.  He wasn't in control anymore, not even remotely.  The hunter and killer was -- taking back every hurt he had ever suffered in blood and still craving more.  The man retreated, grasping hopelessly for existence.  Then it happened.  
  
*Let me help...*  
  
A voice...?  Soft, mild, in his mind.  Normally he could shield his thoughts, but he wasn't even able to control himself, let alone shield against telepathy.  As though watching through a hazy window, his body whirled in the sensing of someone else.  
  
A slender blonde girl, long hair, seemingly unbothered by the carnage around her.  She was probably in her mid-twenties.  Her expression was unreadable, but even as he felt himself start towards her, the image became clearer and clearer.  Just like a flash, he was back in control.  
  
Blue eyes looked up at him without a flinch.  She was a witness, she could be problematic.  But her words still rang in his mind...  
  
*Let me help.*  
  
Shattered._  
  
  
  
When Sabretooth woke up, it was as an animal, not as a man.  Everything was reeling and distorted, all of his senses out of whack, and he was actually afraid -- honestly and truly frightened.  He forced his eyes open, but the whole world danced like a mirage, sickeningly.  His head was resting on something soft, he could tell that much, and he could feel the too close proximity of another living creature nearby.  
  
His body tensed, and the dull throbbing ache that had been running across his back externally and through his lower back internally hit a crescendo.  Gasping, fighting back the blackness that started chewing away at his vision, he tried to move.  
  
The person who was laying somewhat against him said something, but he was really too dazed and confused to understand it.  For a moment he tried to move again, but was once again forced to submission by pain.  Breathing hard and feeling it sear through him with each inhalation, he tried to find coherence.  
  
Hank frowned, having been startled out of his light doze by the movement.  Most of the past several hours had been spent watching a man fighting hard for his life, doing what little he could to help.  The doctor hadn't thought so much as went on instinct, doing what pathetically little he could to tip the balance and give Creed a better chance.  Stopped the bleeding from his back, wrapped what was left of his cotton shirt around him, and then used his own body heat to warm.  
  
It had worked.  The small acts were enough to let Sabretooth's incredibly efficient healing factor compensate, and eventually when it become evident that the man would live, Hank had drifted off.  He was exhausted, not only from the battle and days of constant stress, but from the fight he was waging inside of himself as well.  
  
He was at war with his own conscience.  On one hand, he could have left Sabretooth to bleed out, and that would have ultimately been a mercy in many senses.  Not only would it have ended his suffering, but if the time ever came where he was loose in society again, many other lives would have been saved.  On the other hand, there was a doctor... a healer.  Animal or man, monster or not, Creed was still a living creature, and one that needed help.  In the end, that had won.  Perhaps it was because of Hank's oath as a doctor, perhaps it was compassion.  Deep down, it was both and neither.  Deep down, it was Henry McCoy's way of making up for what the twisted version of himself had inflicted, and proving to himself that he was able to look past hate and stand on his own convictions like his dark twin never could.  
  
Keeping his voice low and even, he tried to get Victor to listen, though from the way the other man was tensed and half-wild in fear, he wasn't sure that he would even understand.  "He's gone, you know... I highly doubt he'll be back any time soon."  
  
The voice that answered was not much more than a shaking, desperate whisper, "Let me go..."  
  
For a moment, Hank actually considered it.  Then he pushed it aside, clinging himself to his beliefs and his compassions. "Let me help."  
  
The words hit Vic like a knife, cutting right through the haze with a clarity that would have startled him if he wasn't concentrating so hard on them.  His jaw knotted in pride, albeit wounded pride, and the moment hung in eternity as he fought himself.  The animal screamed 'run', the man screamed in protest, for every kindness came at some price or another.  But in the end, simple desperation won.  He didn't want to fight anymore, didn't want to do anything but rest.  Someone offered to watch out for him, and that was good enough.  Slowly, setting his dignity aside, he let himself relax and slip back off into oblivion.  
  



	4. Part III

  
  
Silence had fallen over the cell like a blanket. It was almost stifling, but Victor and Henry had very little to say. Not to each other, and not to themselves. Most of the time was spent either sleeping off the isolation and hopelessness, or sitting quietly and contemplating things that no one dared speak of.  
  
On Hank's part, he was still trying to come to grips with what could be happening at the X-Mansion. He was terrified of what damage the Dark Beast could do to the rest of the X-Men, and even more terrified that they would think it was him committing those acts. He missed them, and badly. The Professor, who was so supportive of him while he worked. Cecilia, who worked with him on occasion, learning Biochemistry. Even Marrow with her wonderful upbeat personality. He longed for them, all of them, and prayed to God for his life back before too much damage had been done.  
  
For Victor, it was thinking on a much more primitive level. Simply put, he was confused. Confused at the compassion, confused at his own submission to it, and mostly trying to pick up what few bits of dignity he had left. He kept back in his own corner of the cell, silent and brooding. He couldn't very well taunt and tease at the man who had likely saved his life, nor could he find it in him to talk civilly. His own pride wouldn't allow for it. Inside he raged that anyone had seen him in such a state, that he had so hopelessly allowed Hank to help, and that he still couldn't do anything about it.  
  
There was one bright spot in all of the anger and frustration that covered Creed, though. In his great plan, the Black Beast hadn't remembered to take out his fangs or his claws, and they were coming back in at a good rate. He flexed them every once in a while, if only to remind himself that he wasn't quite so defenseless as before, and took comfort in the feeling of those retractable claws smoothly extending. If the trend continued, even beaten and starved, he would have his defenses back in a matter of a couple days. It _helped_. Inside his mind, he swore to himself that McCoy would never again render him that helpless... even if it meant his life.  
  
  
  
_One mirror, flecked with blood and dirt. It wasn't shattered, but it was old and hung from an equally old wall. The mirror saw, and saw everything.  
  
He looked into it, head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed. What wasn't he seeing? There was something there, just out of reach, like a mist or a ghost; intangibly reaching out in some moments and retreating back behind the mirror in others, behind the blood and dirt.  
  
He traced a finger down the glass, watching it smudge. Behind it was untainted glass, and behind that, untainted silver. A little more sure of himself, he wiped more off, head still tilted. Soon there was a clear spot, then a blotch, then a more solid reflection.  
  
A boy, gold hair like a halo, face wearing a look of innocent hurts and that of injustice. His face, he realized with a slight frown, reaching out to touch the reflection.  
  
Shattered.  
  
The mirror flowed, breaking from the confines of solid and taking on the liquid state. It flowed and swirled, coming back together ever so gently, then stood solid again. More blood than dirt this time, and the face looking back was a little older, more bitter. There was an animalistic gleam in the green eyes, but behind that was still an innocence, an incomprehension of injustice.  
  
Cracked.  
  
Everything became distorted in red, frightening and soothing all in the same moment, all in the same breath of ecstasy and fear. A sense of freedom, a sense of loss, a sense of being out of control.  
  
It only flowed for a second, then became solid again. More dirt, less blood, the twenty-some year old. Not much different in the face from himself, but more calm, more in control. He grasped at it, trying to remember the fragment, but it was just out of reach again. He can't ever remember being that at peace, ever. Then the mirror shattered violently.  
  
It pooled like mercury for a moment, then the pools became one and the mirror came together. Older, feverish look of wild, feral anger. Bitter and cold, twisted into hate and behind the hate lay fear. Then the glass spidered, cracking, leaving behind confusion.  
  
Solid.  
  
Himself as he knew. Tired and angry at the world, tired of being any part of the world. Hating man, hating everything, and perhaps, hating himself at the same time. He touched the mirror, surprised when it didn't break under his fingertips like it seemed to every other time. He could see through clearly, and he saw through the mirror to behind himself, and to Birdy as she looked over his shoulder, but when he turned around no one was there.  
  
Looking back into the mirror, and the fading image, he allowed himself a faint smile, reaching over to touch her reflection. And, for the first time since she had died, he allowed himself to tell her, "I miss you."  
  
Then she was gone... but the mirror remained._  
  
  
  
"I have a gift," the Black Beast announced, looking through the grate with Hank's face but his own ruthless smile.  
  
Hank looked up at him, but didn't make the effort of replying. Given the rattle of chains as his counterpart had approached, he could only guess what that gift might be. The logical part of his mind told him that to get those chains on him, he would have to enter, but it rarely worked out so easily. Discreetly he threw a glance in Sabretooth's direction, but his cellmate was either out cold or playing dead very well.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't count on a repeat performance of last time," McCoy said, smirking. "Unless you really desire that. Now, do I have to tranquilize you, or will you slip these on nicely?"  
  
"I don't have much of a choice either way," Hank answered, keeping his voice as mild as he could manage.  
  
"True," McCoy chuckled, going to unlock the door.  
  
Hank tensed, not entirely certain what to expect. For a moment, he was torn in indecision, trying to weigh whether he should risk a rush on the door and end up wounded even worse than last time, or whether he should bide his time. The moments slowed to near infinity as he contemplated the ramifications, his brain firing ideas at a speed that would startle even a genius...  
  
...when Creed made the decision for him.  
  
The door opened and Sabretooth moved like a streak of lightning, stretching as far as the chains would allow him and managing to get one hand wrapped around the door. Before the startled Black Beast even had time to process the sudden motion from someone he never expected, Victor was barking at Hank, "Move it, damn you!"  
  
That was all Hank needed. He leapt with equal speed, just as McCoy was pulling the door from Vic. He managed to wedge his arm into the space, crying out when the door pressed into muscle and then bone, but not letting go. McCoy was yelling, but neither man heard what he was saying.  
  
Hank held on. He tried to push the door open more and relieve the stress, but it hurt... tears flooded his eyes from the agony, and everything seemed to scream at once to make it stop. He barely heard McCoy, but he did hear Victor's cold threat. "Ya let go of that door, an' I'll fuckin' rip you to shreds." Even near incoherent with pain, Henry believed he would.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Beast got his other arm around and dug into the door with his one good hand, pulling with every ounce of strength he could find. An inch gave, McCoy was holding on with both hands to the grate, trying to close the door. Another inch. Slowly, painfully, the door opened further and further.  
  
The battle apparently lost, the Black Beast let go and leapt backwards, calling for his mutate children. Hank shoved the door open, leaping on his counterpart. One arm was practically numb from shock, and his right hand still hurt, but he struck out anyway with his fists, ignoring the pain for the sake of escape.  
  
The fight was short and brutal, but it left the Dark Beast dazed for long enough. Hank grabbed the keys, throwing them into the cell for Vic to unlock himself, then prepared to face the mutates. He could hear yells of confusion heading in from the hall off to the right, and he wasn't entirely sure whether they would be able to escape everyone. Steeling himself for a battle, he moved to a spot just out of view of the door.  
  
Creed fumbled with the keys, cursing violently until he got first his legs, then his hands unlocked. Getting the collar off was a bit harder, but he found the keyhole and slipped the key in, then yanked it off with rage burning through him hotter than the sun. Fueled on by vengeance, he all but dashed out and without even a pause landed on the Dark Beast clawing.  
  
Hank looked back for a moment, calling, "Creed, we're about to have company!"  
  
"Let 'em come," Victor growled, pinning McCoy. He dug his claws deep into the furry wrists, planting his knee in the larger man's gut.  
  
A group of mutants, some of which were recognizable and some not, rushed in. Seeing their master pinned and bleeding, a few of them stopped with a gasp. Hank prepared himself for an attack, having a harder time ignoring the pain in his arm and hand with every passing moment.  
  
"Let him go!" One of the bolder ones came forward, her voice trembling.  
  
"Here's the deal," Creed said, not taking his eyes off of McCoy, who was beginning to shake off the daze. "You an' yer little friends go real nice like inta that cell over there. Make one move... even breathe wrong, an' you'll see his internals all over the fuckin' floor."  
  
"H-how do we know you won't kill him anyway?" the girl asked, speaking for the rest of them. Hank thought she looked like someone he should know, but he couldn't honestly remember. Half-shocked, he just watched the exchange and prepared to intervene.  
  
"Ya don't." Vic smirked, digging his claws in deeper when the Black Beast tried to pull away. "Test me, bitch."  
  
That was apparently enough, and they began to file towards the cell, all of them being very careful to keep their movements steady. McCoy groaned, and was on the verge of saying something when Sabretooth swiped him across the face hard enough to stun him all over again. The troop cried out, moving quicker, and Hank finally prodded himself into motion, grabbing the keys and locking the door behind them.  
  
A long moment hung in the air, and Creed took a second to toss Hank a look. "Get outta here."  
  
"But--"  
  
Victor snarled, "Go, or yer next, dammit!" He didn't have time for this, and he wasn't about to let the moralistic Beast stop him from getting his ounce of blood. Or guts, for that matter.  
  
Hank scowled, but he left as quickly as he could. If he could get to the surface and to a phone, he might be able to keep anyone from dying. As much as he hated his dark twin, he still didn't believe in killing -- but even if the Black Beast did die, there was no telling what Creed would do with his followers. It wasn't a pretty picture, at any length. Moving as fast as he could, he tried to find his way.  
  
  
  
Victor Creed was in his glory. Taking the shackles intended for Hank, he chained the Black Beast to the door of his lab, then knelt in front of him. He could feel how unsteady he was and just how much of a toll being locked away had taken on him, but it was nothing like the pure hatred he felt. He had been abused, violated, and had near every shred of pride stolen from him, and now he was going to take every single bit back that he could wring out of the furry flesh.  
  
McCoy drifted back around, closing his eyes not even a moment after he had opened them because of the blood running into them from the swipe. "Ah, the labrat has gotten loose. I should have--"  
  
Victor's eyes flashed, and he slammed his fist across McCoy's mouth as hard as he could, feeling at least one tooth break. "I was thinkin', _Doc_. Thinkin' about how long I should torture ya before I let ya die. An' all given, I'm thinkin' a good long time."  
  
"But you promised!" one of the boys yelled from the cell.  
  
"Mongrels don't keep promises," McCoy answered, spitting blood.  
  
"Nope," Creed answered, an icy smirk crossing his face. He flicked out the claws on his right hand, reaching over and cutting an incision down McCoy's chest that would make a surgeon proud. He smiled wider when the scientist gasped, trying to pull away futilely. "Heh... what've we got here? I think I'm gonna have a Beast skin rug when this is all over."  
  
"Bas-bastard," the Black Beast choked, weakly pulling against the shackles.  
  
"Nah. Completely amoral killin' machine fits better," Victor said, smiling. Truthfully, the smile was as fake as it could get. He was still raging mad, from the hurts, from the humiliations, and mostly from being rendered helpless. There was no bloodlust this time -- he was as coherent as he could possibly be. Slowly, with the same precision, he sliced his claw across McCoy's abdomen, not deep enough to pierce anything but skin. He could feel the heavier man jerk, but that did nothing to dissuade him. "Let me amend that... very pissed off completely amoral killin' machine."  
  
"It... it..."  
  
"It what? Was all fer science? Fer pleasure? Not yer fault?" Down the rugged sides, both at the same time. "Bullshit."  
  
"Please..." McCoy pleaded, perhaps realizing his life was going to come to an end.  
  
Victor was the picture of forced pleasant, but his eyes practically glowed from the thousands of feelings coursing through him. "Not a chance." Across the chest, just below the collar bone. "Don't let that keep ya from beggin', though."  
  
  
  
Hank finally found himself a manhole to the surface, and every rung on the ladder made his wounds scream to the point where he nearly blacked out. Hanging onto the third one down with his good hand, his arm felt like it was going to rip at the muscles and remain hanging on the ladder. Grinding his teeth, he tried to push the cover off with his other arm.  
  
After a few tries and a few close calls with unconsciousness, he managed to get the cover out of the way. Sunlight flooded in, half-blinding him and he could hear cars not too far away. Pulling himself up with a pained moan, he squinted to get his bearings.  
  
An alleyway, just off of a fairly busy avenue. He couldn't recognize the place offhand, but so long as he found a phone, the X-Men could track him. He wasn't sure how he would explain everything. All he could think was, _"I want to go home."_  
  
  
  
Sabretooth was still toying with McCoy below. Rather than go any further on his little surgery, simply because he wanted the monster awake when he killed him, he moved on to a few other things. Alcohol dousing on the cuts, which was good for earning a cry of pain. Kneeling back down, he looked into the shock twisted face. "Feelin' better?" he mocked, softly. "After all, yer comfort's pretty important ta little labrat me."  
  
"Just get it over with," McCoy moaned, coughing weakly.  
  
"Nah. No fun in that." Pulling out a couple of hypodermic needles he had found in a drawer, Creed eyed them. "Now hold still. Wouldn't wanna break these off or nothin'."  
  
"Wha--?"  
  
Sabretooth smiled through tightly clenched teeth, grabbing a handful of the Black Beast's hair and yanking his head back. Slowly, with very deliberate movements, he brought the needle down towards McCoy's right eye. McCoy struggled a little harder, squeezing his eyes closed and almost screaming in terror, but Creed just held on tighter. The shrieks as the needle pierced the eye echoed through the tunnels, bringing screams from the frightened mutants in the cell.  
  
  
  
  
Hank dialed the Mansion number collect, breathing a prayer under his breath that they would answer. One ring, two rings, three...  
  
  
  
Hypodermics sticking out of both eyes, tears of blood and fluid running in rivers, the Black Beast was as close as he had ever been to Hell. And Creed wouldn't have it any other way. Sabretooth was just warming up, as he dug through the drawers again to find a stimulant in case McCoy passed out from pain or shock. There was no way that the fucker was going to sleep through a minute of the torture. Most of the bottles were labeled odd names that made no sense to Victor, but he knew enough of prefixes and suffixes that he could figure out which were uppers and which were downers. Selecting a bottle that looked about right, he walked back out.  
  
The Dark Beast was hanging limp from his shackles, his breath coming in hitches. There were small, pleading noises from his throat, but they fell on deaf ears. Creed knelt back down, yanking one of the needles from his eye to use for the stimulant, and bringing forth another scream.  
  
"Hurt?" Victor asked, almost amiably, filling the reservoir with the clear-ish liquid.  
  
McCoy's only answer was a choking noise.  
  
"Yea, kinda figured that. Know what it feels like ta be helpless now? Not too nice, eh?"  
  
"An... anyth-thing... just stop..." McCoy stammered, weakly.  
  
"Would you've stopped if I begged ya?" Creed asked, allowing a little more of the anger into his voice than he wanted to. "How 'bout when ya yanked my teeth soon as they came in? Know how that felt?"  
  
"N-no."  
  
"Maybe it's time ta find out."  
  
  
  
Hank slumped against the alley wall, closing his eyes. Cyclops, Phoenix, Professor Xavier, Wolverine, Gambit, Cecilia and Marrow were on their way. He just hoped they got there in time.  
  
  
  
Creed shot the stimulant into the Black Beast, then sat back to admire the fang he had gotten before the other man had blacked out. It was easily as long as his own, the top still holding blood and tissue, and the root broken off. Held in a pair of vice-grips...  
  
_"Now you hold him!"_  
  
Victor flinched, dropping the pliers to the floor. Fuck, but his head as a mess -- there were so many things going through his mind so quickly that he barely had time to recognize them before the next wave hit. Growling low to himself, and feeling the rush of anger beginning to wear out and the damn weakness setting in, he forced himself back to concentrating at the task at hand. He wasn't sure how long he had to wait until McCoy was awake, but he had given him enough of a dose that it wouldn't be too terribly long.  
  
It took longer than he expected, though. For a short time, he was almost sure he had ended up killing the Black Beast unintentionally, but after a good ten minutes, a low and weak moan proved him wrong. Steeling himself for another round, Creed pointedly ignored the pliers. He had wanted to... damn, but he had wanted to, but he couldn't honestly bring himself to do that. One was enough to get his point across, and for some reason it sent a shiver down his back; not of mercy but of self-recrimination. It wasn't quite a full circle, but it was way too close.  
  
Instead of resorting to that, he went back to slowly skinning the monster. He didn't even bother talking this time, as he made his point that much more eloquently with his claws. Hearing McCoy gasping, choking, and begging wasn't near so gratifying as he had hoped it would be, but that wasn't going to stop him from finishing what he had started. The monster had to die... if he didn't, Creed would never be able to sleep again. He knew that, hated himself for it, and understood it all at the same time.  
  
Concentrating solely on the task, he didn't hear the far off sounds of a group entering the tunnels.  
  
  
  
Hank was almost stumbling to keep up with the rest of the X-Men. Cecilia had wanted to take him back to the Blackbird, but he had insisted on going. Now, as he could hardly keep his footing and his arm throbbed steadily and persistently, he wondered if he shouldn't have taken her advice.  
  
Marrow was in the lead, and Hank had no doubts that if someone didn't rein her in, Sabretooth would be fed his own liver, without the benefit of fava beans or a nice Chianti. Still, Scott was right behind her and he doubted that the fearless leader would let her go ballistic. Digging down deep, he got his second wind.  
  
  
  
The sounds of approach finally broke through Creed's absorption, as a small pile of blue furred skin lay to the side. McCoy was just barely conscious, his breathing unsteady and his head lolling. Frowning to himself, Sabretooth looked in the direction, sniffing to see who was there. No scent, but his instincts were telling him X-Men.  
  
Not even a moment later, a girl he was sure he recognized came through the door with a bone club in her hand, silently. He was just about to rake her when a pinkish glow surrounded her, stopping her in midair. "Let me go!" she snarled with a ferocity Creed might have admired if he wasn't worried about the pink glow. That reeked of Jean Grey, and that was one woman he didn't feel like dealing with.  
  
Sure enough, the rest of the X-Twits rushed in. The one-eyed wonder was in front, his redheaded pitbull was right behind. A growl rose in his throat when he saw Logan, and he was almost sure that Wolverine was going to rush him next. Beast was in the back, panting, looking like death warmed over.  
  
"Step back, Creed," Cyclops ordered, a flash of red running across his visor.  
  
Victor wrapped a hand around the Black Beast's throat, extending his claws. "Piss on a live wire, Summers."  
  
"Let me deal with this trash," Logan growled, unsheathing his claws. He was about to take a flying leap when Hank took his shoulder, whispering something. Logan pulled out of the grip sharply, but paused.  
  
Scott stepped closer, his voice almost booming in command. "Dammit, Sabretooth, back off. Don't make me put you through the wall."  
  
Creed almost smiled to himself. He wasn't about to just up and listen, particularly given all of the circumstances. He could hear Logan's rumbling growl and the bone-girl's raging in the telekinetic field, but he didn't honestly care in that moment. With a surprising calmness, he looked past Cyclops to Hank, catching his gaze for a moment.  
  
Hank's eyebrows drew together, his look taking on an asking air. Not pleading, but asking -- he didn't want to see Creed blasted. He may never call him a friend, or even an ally, but he still didn't want to see him killed. But the blazing green eyes that looked back were adamant, and in a way, Hank did understand that. In a way, he did know exactly why this was going to have to be... and in the deepest part of him, he _almost_ agreed. So he did all he could, and closed his eyes.  
  
The movement was swift and certain, as Victor tore McCoy's throat out. Not even a heartbeat later the optic blast slammed into him like a runaway train, flinging him against the wall like a rag doll. But even as he felt the blackness rolling in, he also felt something he hadn't really known since the beginning of the ordeal.  
  
A sense of honest relief.  
  
  
  
_A house of mirrors.  
  
Some were twisted. Some were normal. Some were broken, some were just cracked, and some were in motion.  
  
He stood in the center, not sure where to look. They were everywhere, and the ones that were moving were making him dizzy. He was tired, and he felt that weariness through his whole body. It wasn't unpleasant, but it made standing difficult.  
  
Slowly, not entirely sure on his feet, he walked to one of the straight mirrors, resting a hand on it and leaning on it, his head bowed. After a moment he looked up, into the silver.  
  
Himself, chained in a basement, not much more than six or seven. Shivering and wrapped in a dusty old blanket, he was holding onto something or another. Frowning to himself, he looked closer to see that it was a little toy of some sort.  
  
Grinding his teeth, jaw knotting in a brief moment of anger or pain, or maybe both, he looked away.  
  
A mirror twisted. Shadows rather than solid figures moved across it, speaking in a garbled and unrecognizable language. He could almost make out a word here or a word there, but nothing completely certain, and nothing to indicate what it could be.  
  
Turning again, he saw a cracked mirror, bearing the reflection and something behind it. He could hear those words, but it only took one sentence to make him whirl and run shakily the other way.  
  
"You killed her, boy... why?"  
  
Stumbling after only a few paces, he nearly went down to his knees, trying to block out the memory. He remembered it like it was a breath ago, yet it was a good deal longer... still it was cracked. Something wasn't right in it.  
  
Looking up, he was face to face with a liquid mirror, and then to the right a solid mirror. Tentatively he half-walked, half-staggered over to the solid one, hoping to find something better. Something more...  
  
...hopeful?  
  
Damn...  
  
Leaning his forehead on the glass, groggily, he kept his eyes closed for a long time. How long was beyond him, but time was relatively meaningless anyway. It flowed past like the silver did, smoothly but uncertainly. In what direction was a mystery.  
  
Eventually he forced his eyes open, pulling back slightly. A... cabin? Woodbeams behind his younger reflection. It was the first time he noticed it, the first time he actually saw beyond himself in that particular image. Focusing back on his own face, he looked at the closest thing to peace he had ever known, yet never known.  
  
He wished for it.  
  
The unbidden question... what was he missing? What wasn't he seeing there?  
  
He traced a finger down the cold glass, shoulders slumping and head nearly bowing to his chest. Damn, he was worn thin, tired out and too exhausted to feel much more than relief, pain and longing.  
  
Leaning his shoulder against that mirror, and letting his head rest against it, he closed his eyes, sliding down to his knees. Somewhere in some time he thought perhaps there was a ray of sunlight, a moment of peace, and this time he grasped it with both hands, clinging for dear life.  
  
Maybe it was an echo that spoke to him, or own his fevered imagination, but he could have sworn he heard, "I miss you too."  
  
_


	5. Part IV

  
  
Waking up was an incredibly slow process. Almost like peeling back layers, Creed expected to wake up and feel pain or cold, but when he finally made it back to the land of the living, there was neither. Blinking at the all too bright light, he tried to get his vision to focus, but everything remained foggy.  
  
He couldn't complain, really. Wherever he had ended up was warm and dry, and he didn't even feel a touch of pain. Somewhere in a more subconscious and instinctive part of his brain he might have realized that he was drugged up to the gills, but he didn't process that. All he was completely sure of was that it was an improvement, that he felt about as relaxed as a human being could get without being dead, and that McCoy _was_ dead and he _wasn't_ going to show up. The last assurance he made to himself was the one he needed most.  
  
A few minutes passed as he debated without actual thought on whether to stay awake or give up and drop back out. Curiosity, the bane of any good cat, finally won out and he made a more serious struggle for reality. His eyesight cleared somewhat and he stupidly looked at the IV in his arm with one eyebrow raised in complete incomprehension. Shaking that groggy fascination off, he made an effort to get his bearings.  
  
Ah. Okay, the X-Mansion medbay.  
  
Great.  
  
Of course, he wasn't really that pissed at the moment. Anything was up from where he had been, and it was better than being locked back down in the basement. He was just about to get up -- maybe not the brightest idea -- when someone wisely interrupted before he could land on his ass.  
  
"Welcome back," Hank said, raising an eyebrow as he walked in. One of his arms was in a sling, and the opposite hand was bound, but he was looking a good deal better.  
  
Creed gave him a look, very mild under the influence of whatever he was being tanked up on. He was pretty sure he had it pieced together now. "Drugged?" Damn, but his mouth didn't want to work right.  
  
Hank nodded, frowning and sitting down in a chair. "It was either sedated and up here or wide awake and locked up down there... unfortunately, Professor Xavier didn't give me any other choice."  
  
"Been usin' th' wrong shoeshine on his head," Victor muttered, just a bit slurred. Reality was seeping in more by the second now.  
  
Beast fought down a chuckle, but the mental image was enough to make the corners of his mouth creep up. "Well, since you're awake, why don't you tell me which you'd prefer?"  
  
"A shower." Vic gave him the faintest of smiles, rubbing his eyes with one hand. The light was waaaay too bright. He was fairly cleaned up (he didn't want to even contemplate how or why), but he still didn't _feel _particularly clean. What he really wanted was a nice, hot, long shower, a good razor, and a pair of scissors. One flippin' step at a time. Then he could worry about being held captive again.  
  
Hank nodded. That was a more than reasonable request, and one he had no problems granting. "Let me take that--"  
  
Vic yanked the IV out and handed it to him with a faint smirk, his arm healing without so much as a drop of blood falling. "There ya go."  
  
"How generous," Beast said, deadpan, taking it carefully in his bound hand and turning the flow off. "Will you please behave?"  
  
"Who, me?" Creed smirked and got to his feet. Still weak, but a whole lot better than before, and he stayed still until his balance came back. He noted the sweats with a certain appreciation... Hank had at least given him some consideration and he wasn't in one of those damn paper gowns. He tired not to notice that they smelled faintly of Bishop, or that he was still wickedly thin compared to normal. Time would take care of that. "Yea, I'll behave. Jus' keep th' rest o' the twits away."  
  
Hank chuckled, humorlessly. "Fair enough, Herr Toothmonger. Bathroom's through the door to the left."  
  
  
  
Crawling into a scalding hot shower was practically heaven. Well, Vic thought it was heaven. The water was hot enough to burn most, but it wasn't intolerable to him, and after months of being cold, he could stand it without so much as a flinch. How long he let himself just stand there, shaking off the last of the sedation and letting the water flow down almost like rain, was anyone's guess. The X-Mansion wouldn't want that badly for hot water, and he wasn't going to let anyone rush this.  
  
He must have scrubbed himself red and even drew blood at some points, trying to shake off the lingering traces of the Black Beast's scent from himself. It didn't matter, he healed quickly enough. Healing factor was stronger than it had been, though he wasn't about to pick a fight for another few days at least.  
  
Finally as satisfied as he could possibly get without tearing out of his own skin, he basked for a good hour, kneeling, head bowed, with the water pouring down.  
  
  
  
Hank looked up near two hours later when his patient/captive walked back in. Well, he preferred not to think of Creed as a captive, though in all reality that's exactly what he was. Still, he looked better, more alert. For a moment Beast wondered if that really was a good thing, but there wasn't anything threatening in his stance, more just tired and temporarily complacent. "Better?" the blue-furred biochemist asked, forcing a smile.  
  
"Yup," Creed answered shortly, looking around. He had taken a pair of surgical scissors to his hair, cropping his bangs short enough to stay out of his eyes, and a razor to the almost beard he had acquired. Not exactly like a trip to the barber's, but there wasn't much of a chance of that... yet. "How long've I been out?"  
  
"Not long... just under a day and a half, actually." Hank went back to cleaning up some of his equipment as well as he could, keeping one eye on Creed. "I'm amazed that blast didn't do more damage."  
  
"Ole One-Eye holdin' back, ya think?" Vic asked, perching himself on the edge of a bed and still cataloguing the room piece by piece, automatically making mental notes.  
  
"I can't really say." Beast glanced up, eyeing the other man for a moment. "Hungry?"  
  
Vic frowned, trying to figure out how to reply without sounding pathetic. Immediately 'fuck it' came to mind. "Starvin'."  
  
"Me too." Hank smiled, walking out in a somewhat leap of faith. He knew he wouldn't be longer than a few moments, just long enough to call up to the kitchen and have Jean bring something down. He wasn't sure if he could expect a set of claws buried in him, or if Creed would stay put and behave like he said he would.  
  
Victor waited mildly, sitting back and fiddling with a nearby doohicky that could have been an artificial insemination tube for a cow for all he knew. It was handy and it kept him from getting too restless... having some semblance of strength back did that. He glanced back up at Hank when he walked in, secretly grinning to himself as he thought about how nervous he was making the other man.  
  
"New York Strip, practically still seeping vital fluids, correct?" Hank asked, sneaking over to carefully free his equipment before it ended up broken.  
  
Vic let him take it, not even raising a lip. He could afford to be civilized for now, and it was keeping him out of the basement. He hadn't failed to notice that he wasn't shackled and muzzled, and that was another small appreciation he added to the list. "Yep."  
  
Hank nodded, wondering what he was going to do with Sabretooth after dinner. He couldn't leave him alone, he didn't want to drug him again, but he most certainly didn't want him banished to the basement. Beast knew he wouldn't take being locked down in the dark well himself, and the idea of inflicting it on Creed was something he honestly didn't want to resort to. Still, there wasn't much he could do with the man... well, nothing that would be allowed by the Professor and the rest of the team.  
  
He knew that they weren't happy about Sabretooth being back in the mansion. If not for some mild pleading on his own part, Creed would have been immediately shipped off. Cecilia had seconded him, though, and in the end, so had Jean. In truth, Hank wasn't sure why Phoenix had agreed with him, but if she hadn't, the balance wouldn't have been tipped. She had her reasons, though, he knew that much.  
  
Not that it would last forever. Psylocke's near death had been the icing on the cake, and it was only a matter of time before Creed would be thrown to the government to deal with.  
  
In a way it would almost be a relief. Marrow had gone missing the minute that they had agreed to keep Sabretooth there for the time. Scott had protested adamantly, even with his wife's acceptance. Logan went the way of Sarah, no doubt back out into the woods. The tension could be cut with a knife.  
  
But even as he thought about how it would allow life to go back to normal, he didn't want to think about it happening too soon. Whether it was psychology of a POW at work, or simple human compassion, Hank couldn't help but feel uneasy at the idea of Creed being locked away in a cell for the rest of his life. A year ago, he would have accepted it and even advocated it. Then, a lot had happened in that year, and he had a hard time seeing just a monster. It was much harder to condemn a man.  
  
A knock on the door made both of them startle, and look up. Jean set down the tray, her stance aloof and appraising. Hank didn't need to look back to know that Victor was on his feet as well.  
  
They looked at each other for a long moment, and if Beast didn't know any better, he would say that both were like territorial animals, not attacking but getting a feel for who the other was. The tension was there, almost enough to smother.  
  
Creed kept his face neutral. Grey was one of the few people he knew he would have a hard time defeating in a true battle. She had the upper hand when he was in the basement, but they were on even ground now, and she knew that.  
  
Jean raised an eyebrow at him, briefly. Whether it was a challenge or a question was in the air, and he answered it by picking his chin up slightly, proudly. If it was a challenge, he wouldn't back down. If it was a question, then that was all the answer she needed. Green eyes searched, but there was no telepathic intrusion, and after a moment she nodded so slightly that only someone paying close attention would notice. Then, in a flag of red hair, she was gone.  
  
Victor shot Hank a somewhat amused glance when the scientist visibly relaxed, but didn't say anything. He was puzzling over the nod, wondering what the Hell she meant by it. Setting those thoughts aside after a minute, he decided just to concentrate on food and then plan the steps after that.  
  
  
  
"Hey, blondie, make yourself useful and take these to the sink."  
  
Victor raised an eyebrow at the lithe black woman who was ordering him around, wondering exactly who she was. He knew her name was Cecilia Reyes, and that she was fairly new to life around the Mansion, but aside from that, he wasn't sure. He saw Hank stiffen out of the corner of his eye and fought down a smirk. He was as jumpy as a jackrabbit on speed. But it had been his idea to drag Creed down to the lab, and given the alternatives, Creed didn't protest much. He was starting to think about it now, though. "You got two arms, babe."  
  
Cecilia shoved the bin of instruments against Vic, scowling. "So do you."  
  
Sabretooth narrowed his eyes at her, but decided it was wiser to oblige. Muttering to himself, he carried the tub over to the sink, "From assassin ta prisoner ta fuckin' lab assistant."  
  
Hank chuckled to himself now that he was sure there wasn't going to be a fight, and went back to reading from the monitor. Cecilia joined him a moment later, and he did honestly try not to notice how good she smelled as she leaned over his shoulder.  
  
Victor watched, grinning slightly. He wasn't sure if he was disgusted or amused with the way they were dancing around each other. It almost reminded him of a couple teenagers, and the fact that it was two people with more combined education than half of the X-Men appealed to his sense of irony. Shaking his head to himself, he sat back down in the only reasonably comfortable chair and leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest and closing his eyes. Let the kiddies have their fun... he was going to take a nap.  
  
  
  
_The house had a single window this time, high up and towards the center. Light came in gently, but not brightly, casting on the hard wood floor and reflecting off of the mirrors. There were more this time, but they didn't seem to crowd the place, and as always were in different states.  
  
He stood in the center, looking around. More detail than last time, and he was a good deal more aware of it. He couldn't hear anything but his own breathing, but even the silence seemed in motion.  
  
Stepping lightly, carefully, he made his way to where the mirror had been that he had leaned against last time. It was still there, and he knelt on one knee in front of it, hoping to see something more. He wanted to know, wanted to see the memory that had been blocked for so long.  
  
The background seemed a little clearer, but nothing had actually been added to it. Definitely a log cabin of some sort, though. He didn't know how exactly why he was so sure of that, but that's what his instincts said. He listened.  
  
The reflection that looked back seemed so young, so peaceful. Damn, he envied himself, as odd as that sounded. Envied the face looking back, even though it was his own. It couldn't have been him, though... peace was something that only came in brief moments, only when he was completely clear headed or when...  
  
Or when Birdy came to him.  
  
Damn her.  
  
He turned and looked at the mirror that showed her death. Clenching his teeth, he worked his way over almost like a skittish animal, ready to leap away if it burned. The mirror was still cracked through, showing the fragmented image of her and Graydon.  
  
"You can't kill him! He might really be your son!"  
  
Her voice rang through the quiet, setting him ready to run. He felt almost uneasy about that statement... why did she care? She had accompanied him on more than a few contracts, and she didn't have a problem killing. Whether Graydon was his son or not shouldn't have been relevant.  
  
Before he even had time to process it, he was looking down at her, laying at his feet. His jaw knotted tighter, feeling a fresh wave of ache run through his chest... she looked so surprised, her deep blue eyes wide open and her mouth hanging open... fuck, it hurt. He heard his own voice, as cool as ever, and he heard Graydon's higher voice answering, bordering on insanity, but all he could really see was Birdy dead at his feet.  
  
He felt it now like he hadn't then, felt the sense of loss and of lonliness. He hadn't even really realized it then, but he knew now.  
  
He didn't know why she had cared about whether his rat-bastard kid lived, though.  
  
Touching the mirror and feeling the sharp cracks, he knelt down and traced his fingers across her broken reflection. The edges cut, but not quite so deep, and he asked her, the dead girl, "Why?"  
  
A sound behind him made him jump, turning with his claws out. So engrossed in the mirror as he was, he hadn't even been paying attention to the rest of the room, and when he turned he came face to face with one of the people he hated, and hated quite a bit.  
  
Charles Xavier stood, his hands clasped behind his back and his face fairly composed.  
  
Victor snarled, shaken at the idea of the baldy just up and invading his mind without so much as his consent, or even without alerting Creed to his presence. "What th' fuck d'you think yer doin', Chuckles?"  
  
"Observing," Xavier answered, mildly. "Quite a change from the last time."  
  
"That's none o' yer business, asshole." Victor took a step forwards, fangs bared and claws at ready. "Get. Out. Of. My. Head."  
  
"I intend to in a moment. But for the sake of my students, I thought it prudent to find out just how much of a threat you are."  
  
"A pretty big one if ya don't LEAVE!" Sabretooth roared, causing the mirrors to rattle from the reverberation of his voice. He was just barely holding back from attacking the Professor, and that was only because he knew he'd be psi-blasted into the next county now that the fucker had gotten inside of his shields.  
  
Xavier looked as calm as usual, replying, "I could help."  
  
"Like ya tried to last time?! Lock th' psycho in the basement, run 'im through mazes, an' insult the livin' fuck outta him when... when..."  
  
"When he doesn't care to try?"  
  
Creed snapped, flying at Xavier with every intent of rending him limb from limb. Much to his chagrin, he flew right through the smaller man and landed on his face. Leaping back up swiftly, he turned to charge again.  
  
Xavier held up a hand, freezing Sabretooth in his steps. "Victor, calm down."  
  
"Calm down?!" Victor struggled against the invisible bonds, incredulous. "Ya invade my mind, offer ta help after all th' bullshit ya pulled last time, an' now yer fuckin' holdin' me down!"  
  
"I'd rather speak peaceably, which looks unlikely with you trying to tear me to shreds."  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
Xavier released the hold, clasping his hands behind his back again and shaking his head. "Do you always attack those who offer aid, or is there a particular reason why you won't accept mine?"  
  
Creed walked around him, almost circling. "None of yer business. Out."  
  
A hint of annoyance crept into the Professor's voice as he said, "It's very much my business when it comes to my home and my students. The last time you were here, you nearly killed Elisabeth. This time, I have two people missing and several more unable to sleep at night. I think I have a right to--"  
  
"Like Hell you do!" Victor yelled, stopping his pacing and growling. "Ya wanna know why I hate yer guts, Chuckie? Huh?!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I hate you because yer a self-righteous prick," Sabretooth said, his voice low and cold. "I hate you because you think yer better than me, when in truth, yer not even close. I hate you 'cause when I actually wanted help, all I got was locked away an' told 'ya have ta do it yerself, all I wanna do is stop you from killin' anymore'. I hate you 'cause you never had a right ta judge me. An' now, Chuck? I hate ya because ya just pulled the fuckin' mental equivalent of rape, all in th' name o' what's supposedly good an' right."  
  
For a long moment the Professor allowed this to sink in, and for one of the few times Creed could remember, the old man didn't have a ready reply.  
  
Sabretooth took a step closer, anger and hate burning through his veins. "Get out."  
  
Xavier's jaw knotted, then he was gone, and the silence came back.  
_  
  
  
It didn't particularly surprise Creed when he woke up and found himself back in the basement cell he had been in last time. He had a sneaking suspicion that Xavier wouldn't allow him loose after the smack he had just dealt. Standing with a savage growl, he paced back and forth in the too small space, throwing a violent glance at the forcefield that blocked the opening. He doubted his body was up to the assault it would take if he decided to throw himself against it, and he wasn't about to commit suicide.  
  
Raging at the mental violation, he made sure his shields were doubled against any further entry. Years upon years of experience had taught him to block out outside interference, and he wasn't going to let his guard down now. Not until he was far away from the mansion and everyone in it. Gritting his teeth together, he kept pacing like a caged tiger, nearly every muscle tense in agitation and anger.  
  
He could smell Hank coming, and when the scientist stopped and looked in, he shot him a glare that would kill if looks could do that.  
  
Hank flinched. "It wasn't my idea, Sabretooth. I tried to talk them out of it, but they didn't listen."  
  
A hint of bitterness crept into Creed's voice as he answered, "Doesn't do me any good now, does it?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Beast murmured, rubbing his eyes. He had lost a good deal of respect already from those who didn't know him well, and now he was beginning to concern those who did. "Is there anything I can do to help?"  
  
"Leave me alone," Vic said, sharply, going back to his anxious pacing.  
  
Hank just nodded, sighing to himself, and walked away.  
  
  
  
Hours later found Victor no closer to calm, but he had stopped pacing. The idiots upstairs were probably asleep, or trying to sleep, and he knew that it was in the early hours of the morning.  
  
Even if he had wanted to, and hadn't been angry, he doubted he would be able to fall asleep. Just when he was starting to recover from one prison he had been tossed into another. It had been bearable in the medbay or the lab, with just Beast, but to be locked back in the basement was a bitter reminder if there ever was one of just how recently he had been down in the Dark Beast's lair.  
  
He finally sat down, resting his face in his hands for a moment. Fuck, he wanted out. Over and over, all he could think was how badly he just wanted to be somewhere else, someplace far away from Xavier and his precious little X-Men. Far away from the complex morals and so-called righteousness, far away from the tension. Anywhere else, just not there. Not locked in a cell.  
  
He heard and smelled Hank as the other man approached again, and looked up. Biting down a snarl, he asked, "Whaddya want?"  
  
"Company," Beast answered, keying in the code that would allow him to walk in and out, but that was set to keep Creed in. He stepped in, holding out a cup of coffee and looking around at the four walls. "It is rather small from this angle."  
  
"Try bein' stuck in here," Victor replied, ignoring the peace offering. Not that he _wanted_ to ignore it, but he wasn't in the mood to be friendly to anyone.  
  
"Just take the damn coffee," Hank snapped.  
  
Creed smiled slightly, raising his eyebrows in amusement. After a moment, just given for the sake of not being an easy target, he finally took the cup. "Thanks."  
  
Beast sat down in a chair with his own cup, rubbing his eyes again. He had worked until just a half an hour ago, partly from guilt he couldn't explain and partly to keep himself distracted. He wasn't sure why he had decided to come down and talk to Creed, but he felt slightly better now that he had. "You're welcome."  
  
Victor arched an eyebrow, sitting back against the wall and drawing his knees up without even consciously realizing it. "Why're ya down here?"  
  
"Purely selfish reasons, I assure you." Hank took a sip of his coffee, sighing tiredly. "Guilt, mostly."  
  
"Guilt," Sabretooth echoed, holding the mug in both hands and enjoying the heat it was giving off.  
  
"Why did you have to start an argument with him?"  
  
"Wouldn't you?"  
  
"Well... probably not, no. He _did_ offer to help." Hank looked up, frowning.  
  
Creed smirked, taking a sip of the coffee before setting it aside. "I don't _want_ his help, McCoy."  
  
"Why not?" Beast asked, curious. "He's an excellent psychologist."  
  
"He's a self-righteous bastard," Victor muttered, a fresh shot of anger running through him. "All about what's right an' wrong, but never 'bout what's true or not."  
  
Hank stiffened slightly at the insult, not only to Xavier but to his codes and conducts as well. "Is going on a killing spree right? Tearing through everyone indiscriminately, be they man, woman or child?"  
  
"Depends on th' circumstances," Creed answered, a cool grin playing across his face.  
  
"Do you think it's right?" Hank challenged, looking at the other man intently.  
  
A long moment passed before Victor replied, "Not always. Sometimes they have it comin'. Sometimes they don't. Usually doesn't matter either way."  
  
"So why do it?"  
  
Creed shot him an annoyed look. "Hey, I'm not in th' mood fer psychology."  
  
"I never said you were," Hank said, smirking himself now.  
  
Victor growled, frustrated. He didn't want to be psychoanalyzed, helped, or anything else. Least of all locked in a cell. "Well, since yer so philosophical t'night, why doncha answer me somethin'?"  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"What d'you think's right an' wrong?"  
  
It was a simple enough question, and Hank began, "I think that fighting for peaceful coexistence between humans and mutants is right. I think that everyone deserves fair and impartial justice, and--"  
  
"Whoa, hold it," Sabretooth said, holding up a hand. "Who's ta say what justice is?"  
  
"Courts, I suppose," Hank answered, confused. "The majority of society, who writes the laws, as well as upholds them."  
  
"Th' same society an' majority that wants all muties dead?" Victor asked. "The same people who tell ya that ya have ta have car insurance, but don't make it affordable? The same people who pass laws all th' time to register muties, or keep an eye on 'em?"  
  
"Well, yes, but--"  
  
"Now ya follow the law that says ya have ta have car insurance, but ya don't follow the law that says ya have ta report to a court officer if yer a 'dangerous' mutant?"  
  
"The second isn't a just law," Hank defended.  
  
"Yer right, it's not," Vic conceded, then continued, "but the society that says killin' is wrong is the society that makes these unjust laws. Get my point?"  
  
"Are you trying to tell me that murdering innocents wasn't wrong?" The blue scientist looked incredulous.  
  
Sabretooth shook his head, sighing. "No, I'm tryin' ta tell ya that jus' because it's killin' doesn't always make it wrong. But the law says it is every time. I'll admit I've done some pretty fucked up things ta people, but I'll never admit that it was _always_ wrong ta do it."  
  
"What about Psylocke?"  
  
"She had it comin'."  
  
"You nearly killed her! You've changed her life, took away something she can never get back!" Hank exclaimed, angrily, frustrated that he wasn't getting anywhere.  
  
Victor's voice dropped a level, taking on a razor's edge. "If I had my way, McCoy, she'd be dead."  
  
Beast looked across, eyebrows knitted together. He just wasn't sure what to make of Creed. On one part he could see an intelligent creature who could be as calm and logical as any man, and then on another part, there seemed to be nothing but a blood thirsty monster. "Why...?"  
  
"It was her or me, pal," Creed said, almost nonchalantly. "An' I was damned if it was gonna be me. Think she woulda hesitated takin' my head offa my shoulders?"  
  
"Well, yes."  
  
"Why? 'Cause she's one o' you?" Victor shook his head. "She pretends, Beast. She pretends she's higher'n that, that she's somehow better'n me, better'n the average asshole on the street. All o' ya do."  
  
"Because we have morals?" Hank asked. "Because we strive to be better than animals?"  
  
"No. Because when ya fail, it's okay. But when th' rest o' us fail, we get locked away."  
  
"There's a difference between killing hundreds and... and..."  
  
"An' killin' one? Is there?" Creed crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "So when yer little Southern belle was a badguy an' caused innocent deaths, or took some woman's whole life away, that was forgivable?"  
  
Hank wondered idly in the back of his mind just how much Sabretooth knew about them, but didn't voice that. "She's spent years since then trying to make amends."  
  
"What 'bout the runt? He ain't no saint either," Victor pointed out. "Got more blood on his hands than most o' the rest of ya combined."  
  
"The same with him," Beast said, frowning and trying to understand what Creed was aiming at.  
  
"An' the high an' mighty Professor Xavier," Vic said, laying the sarcasm on, "who wiped some guy's brain out."  
  
"He probably saved thousands of lives!"  
  
Sabretooth leaned closer, looking at Hank with a disturbingly intent look. "Here's the million dollar question, McCoy. Who gave him th' right ta judge Mags an' pass sentence on him?"  
  
"He was only doing what he had to," Hank mumbled, feeling his argument floundering.  
  
"Why'd he have to?"  
  
"Because Magneto nearly killed Logan, and would have destroyed many others."  
  
Vic sighed, "Yer missin' the point, McCoy."  
  
Hank raised an eyebrow. "What is the point, Creed?"  
  
"Th' point is, yer beloved _messiah_ takes it on himself ta say, 'This mutant is redeemable, this one is, but this one isn't an' neither is this one, so we'll forgive th' ones that'll follow my own path, but those who chose their own have to be neutralized.'"  
  
"In reference to you and Magneto, I'm assuming," Hank said, flatly, taking a sip of his coffee.  
  
"Maybe," Victor shrugged, "maybe not. But whaddya wanna bet if I woulda sat there an' agreed ta fight on yer side, he woulda tried a whole lot harder ta help rather than 'neutralize'."  
  
"You didn't want redeemed, Sabretooth." Hank frowned, leaning back with a distinctly regarding look.  
  
"Guess you'll never know, eh?" Creed finished the coffee in one shot, tossing the mug at the scientist.  
  
Beast caught it easily, standing. "Do you?"  
  
"Do I what?"  
  
"Do you want to repent for your crimes?"  
  
Sabretooth frowned slightly, looking out to the other side of the forcefield. "Right now, all I want is somethin' resemblin' peace."  
  
"I hope you find it," Henry said, sincerely, stepping out to the other side. Without another word, he walked away.  
  
Creed muttered to himself in the dark cell, "Yea. Me too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Part V

_  
  
A little more light, more like the sun flooding in, touching everything in it's path so gently and completely that there was no arguing with it. No shadows dare speak in it's path, aside from the shadow he cast as he stood in the center with his face pointed towards the window. Light played across his features, bringing the slightest of smiles, and for the moment he forgot to worry about other people, about memories or mirrors.  
  
The moment was short lived, but not entirely without its own merit. Still, he shook off the thrall of the sunlight and turned back to the mirror that was cracked. He was starting to dread this, starting to dread seeing it happen all over again. But there was something more there, and he knew he had to find it.  
  
He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but the cracks didn't seem as deep or numbered. It was still fragmented, though.  
  
The conversation ran through the same as it always did. He didn't need to listen to it; it was branded into his memory. But this time... this time there was a pause where there hadn't been before and it startled him.  
  
Kneeling, he touched the glass, running a finger across the crack bisecting her face and leaving behind a thin line of red from where it cut. Taking only a second to make sure he wasn't being watched, he looked back, eyebrows drawn. "Why?"  
  
The dead girl didn't answer him. Not that he really expected her to, but there had to be something he didn't remember. Something said or done, or even just a thought. Anything.  
  
Repeating the question again, almost angrily, he tried to piece it together. He had so many memories that were broken or fragmented, or just lost, and he didn't have a clue of how to begin putting them back together. Professional telepaths had screwed with his mind to a point all he knew was his codename and his last name. It had taken years to even get this much back, and everything he had gotten back had always been dark and violent.  
  
It couldn't have always been that way, though. There had to have been a good time in his life, if the full mirror carried any truths. But unlike the others, it was whole yet he still couldn't remember it. He tossed a glance in its direction before bowing his head and closing his eyes.  
  
Birdy had been inside his head. She knew him as well as he knew himself, and as he looked at her dead reflection, he realized that she might have even known him better. She had been so good at piecing together his thoughts when they were getting dangerously frayed, and with a frown he thought that she would know how to fix the memories as well.  
  
But she was gone, and he didn't know how to do it himself.  
  
"You can't kill him! He might really be your son!"  
  
"So?"  
  
His head snapped up, and he looked at the mirror again with shock spreading across his face. What the fuck...?  
  
"How will you ever know if you don't talk to him, huh?!"  
  
Know what...? Practically falling over from the intensity that he was putting into the image in the mirror, he searched for what she could be referring to. Damn.... damn, blank slate...  
  
The mirror went back to the line of conversation that he knew, and he almost howled at the frustration. He was so close to getting the memory all intact..._  
  
  
  
Days passed in the sort of monotony that could sap most people to unthinking droids, and it sure didn't do Victor a whole lot of good. He was usually an active creature, and to be penned up between the four walls of the cell was pretty much Hell. He had barely managed to escape before with some semblance of sanity, and to go from one prison to another, then back to the first was slowly killing him. He did what he could to relieve the mind-numbing boredom by exercising, trying to get back the mass of muscles he had before the Black Beast had grabbed him, but that would be a long way off.  
  
Moving with the easy grace of an animal, his actions had a certain liquid quality. He thought sometimes in motion, as a man, and other times just moved on pure instinct, as an animal. Now was the movement of an animal, thoughtless and elegant all at once.  
  
It was all he could do not to lose his mind. The isolation part wasn't nearly so bad as the lack of sunlight or any of the other small things that made life seem more bearable, even to an almost schizophrenic murderer. He clung hard to the grip he was working on getting more solidly in his mind, slowly taking the time to piece back together a life that had been fragmented for decades by memory implants, rages, and otherwise damaging happenings. He _wanted_ his life back, badly enough that he was doing something he wouldn't have considered a year or two before, or even several years... he was working on it himself, patiently and diligently. Patience and perseverance were never his strong points; he was naturally short tempered and quick to flare. But he wanted it, and he fought tooth and claw to get it.  
  
Hank stopped by nearly every evening, sometimes with coffee and sometimes with a beer or some other peace offering. Creed wouldn't admit it, but he looked forward to it. They talked on all subjects, both guarding their own secrets with a passion. Sometimes the Beast would try to pry, and Vic easily deflected it by throwing it back to him. On occasion they just sat in almost companionable silence, a rare thing for both given the company, and listened to the quiet.  
  
On his usual nightly trip, which he made for reasons even he wasn't sure of, Hank stopped and watched Sabretooth in his full motion glory. That cell really was too small for him, the scientist noted, and thought he might ask the professor to find someplace bigger. Still, Creed made use of his space. He wasn't as agile as Hank was, but he still had a quality to how he moved, silently and gracefully. Even after a leap, claws catching the dim light, he landed without a whisper of sound. Beast shivered to himself, realizing just how efficient a killer the man was. No wonder he had so much blood on his hands.  
  
Victor rounded out, coming up from a roll to a crouch, and turning a set of blazing green eyes to meet the cooler blue looking in. "Evenin'."  
  
"Morning, technically," Hank corrected, stepping in and offering a bottle of some hard Canadian beer he had found in Logan's stash. He was sincerely hoping the small, feral man wouldn't notice the absence.  
  
Creed stood smoothly, taking the bottle and looking at it with a faint smirk. "Been stealin' offa the runt, eh?"  
  
"I won't tell if you won't." Beast chuckled, pulling a chair over from where it had been shoved out of the way and sitting down.  
  
Vic flipped the top off with the flick of a claw, sitting down slowly himself. "Didn't see nothin'."  
  
"Anything," Hank admonished, jokingly, and was rewarded with the bottle cap landing in his cup of coffee. "Three point shot."  
  
"So my grammar sucks? Can't all be college educated."  
  
Henry fished out the cap and set it aside. "Why not?"  
  
Victor didn't even bother answering that. "Any word from baldy on when I'm gettin' shipped off ta the pen?"  
  
Beast frowned, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He didn't even want to think about dealing with that on top of the hours on hours of research he had been doing, but he couldn't keep putting it off, either. "Still at my discretion, though I doubt I'll be able to claim keeping you under my care much longer."  
  
"Kinda surprised it worked this long." Creed shrugged, nonchalantly, not letting it slip just how much anxiety the idea of being locked in prison for the rest of his life gave. "Why, Beast? Jus' fer the sake o' curiosity."  
  
"Why haven't you ripped my throat out?" Hank asked back.  
  
"Why haven't ya preached ta me 'bout how I should be repentin'?"  
  
"Why haven't you played mindgames with me?"  
  
Victor frowned. That would go on all night. "You first."  
  
"Nope." Hank smiled slightly, countering the frown with a semi-disarming look. "You first, then I will."  
  
Creed muttered, no small about of distaste in his tone, "'Cause ya act like ya give a flyin' fuck."  
  
Beast chuckled softly, his deep, mellow voice coming from inside his massive chest. "Well, my answer would be because I do give a 'flyin' fuck'," he said, imitating Creed's voice on the phrase.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"If I knew that, oh champion of fundamental beliefs, I would be a wise man and able to charge for advice given." Hank grinned, wryly. "But I don't know, so I cannot answer that in good conscience."  
  
"Fair 'nough." Victor raised an eyebrow. "Champion...?"  
  
"Your name," Beast explained. "Victor... conqueror, winner, champion. Creed... a set of essential and fundamental, or basic beliefs."  
  
"Yea?" Creed smirked to himself. "Sabretooth fits better."  
  
"That it does," Hank replied, smiling faintly. "Your name's not that of a killer."  
  
"Mommy an' daddy fucked up," Victor said, almost dismissively. "Big surprise there."  
  
"Anything you'd like to share?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Hank nodded, knowing that no amount of prying would get Creed to talk if he had his mind set not to. He found that the other man did talk, though, a good bit more than last time he had been there. Of course, last time he had seemed more angry and violent. Anymore it was hard to see him like that... Sabretooth was by no means tamed, but he was quite a bit more calm and observant. The glow might have been his downfall before, but he seemed more pieced together now, more in control. It was almost unsettling -- Creed in a lucid and cunning state was probably more dangerous than blindly raging. Nonetheless, he hadn't made a move yet against Hank, or Jean who brought him his food, though at times Beast caught a look the suggested he'd like nothing more. "Honestly, I think that you'll probably have another week here at most," the scientist admitted, watching the reactions.  
  
The only thing that betrayed the taller man was a slight slumping in his shoulders. "Figured."  
  
"I wish there was something else we could do, but given your past..." Hank gestured, not bothering to finish the sentence. He tried to sound somewhat reassuring, "You know, 'stone walls do not a prison make...'"  
  
'''...Nor iron bars a cage.' Lovelace was a shithead if he bought inta that." Victor grumbled, leaning back against the wall. "A prison's a prison, whether it's iron an' stone or steel an' alien forcefields."  
  
"It doesn't have to be. The mind can roam much further than the mere limitations of the body."  
  
"Try spendin' half yer life in a prison an' tell me that."  
  
Hank frowned. "You brought it onto yourself."  
  
Creed rolled his eyes, then tossed Hank a dark look. "Yea, but that sure doesn't make it an appealin' prospect."  
  
"I don't imagine it does." Beast stood after a moment, heading for the door. "I'll see if we can't move you somewhere larger, at least until you're remanded to the government."  
  
Sabretooth sighed slightly, laying down and staring at the ceiling. He wasn't about to reply, and he noted McCoy's departure before turning back to his own thoughts.  
  
  
  
_For a creature who preferred to hunt in the night, he had a curious need for sunlight. A longing, desperate and from the depths of a soul held in shadow most of the time. He stood in the light from the window, shining so brightly now that a good part of the room was illuminated.  
  
It felt good. It felt like freedom, reaching out from the other side to tease and coax, promising something better. Whether there was anything better was insignificant, but the promise was there, and that was enough for now. Something to strive for.  
  
Breaking the subtle hypnosis, he turned and looked at the reflecting shards and silver. Frowning only briefly, he moved slowly to the mirror that was cracked, but not so cracked. The closer he got the more it sounded and showed, though all images he felt completely ambivalent about. One part wanting to forget, and the other part wanting to remember.  
  
It spoke no more of its mysteries that day, but in a flash of insight, he looked to the other mirrors. So many of them, yet they still didn't represent an entire lifetime. Not a lifetime as long as his, anyway. Stepping quietly from one to the next, he came to the conclusion that those that were there were all fairly recent, aside from the single outcast and the ones of his childhood.  
  
An inspiration worked in with the sun, and he picked one of them up, moving it to where it was closer to the next consecutive memory. Then he repeated the process, going on down the line until there were a good ten or fifteen in a row. They were chronologically ordered, carefully, and even as he finished placing them in that sequence, they shifted.  
  
Watching with an almost innocent fascination, he knelt to one knee, head tilted. They were in motion, liquid and shining in the sun. Then...  
  
....then they joined together.  
  
The large mirror left began the entire sequence, literally days long, and he watched in rapt silence. There were things there he hadn't remembered, and he glanced to the mirror set aside.  
  
A lot of work, but if he could pull it off, he might be able to find what was missing._  
  
  
  
"Sabretooth."  
  
Creed opened one eye, looking out through the forcefield with a slight smirk. "Phoenix."  
  
Jean stepped in, her long red hair flowing around her almost unnaturally. There was no fear in her scent, he could tell that much unconsciously, and she looked like she would kick his ass if he so much as breathed wrong in her direction. "How are you?" she asked, conversationally.  
  
"Whaddyou think?" Victor countered, sitting up but making no move to stand.  
  
"Bitter, angry, charming as ever, and probably thinking of a way to escape." She set the tray down, turning back for the door.  
  
"Ooooh, touche," he shot back. "Jus' like you, eh?"  
  
She looked back over her shoulder, a sardonic grin crossing her face. "I'm not the one running, now, am I?"  
  
"Ya sure 'bout that, Red?" Sabretooth leaned back, crossing his arms and regarding her.  
  
Jean sighed, "Creed, I think we came to the conclusion last time that your mindgames aren't going to work on me. Save it for Hank."  
  
"Who said I was playin' a mindgame?"  
  
"Who said you weren't?"  
  
"I did," he answered, mildly, though there was still a hint of arrogance in his voice. "Heard from furball that you vouched fer me ta the Prof. Mind if I ask why?"  
  
"No, I don't mind," she said, stepping out and looking in with a semi-smug look. "Mind if I don't answer?"  
  
Vic whistled in half-amusement, half-admiration. "Nah."  
  
"Good!" And with a flip of her hair, she was gone.  
  
Creed looked after her momentarily, then shook his head to himself. That woman was a mystery if there ever was one. Angel and devil all wrapped up in a pretty little package he wouldn't mind tearing into someday, though he doubted it would be worth the pain she could and would inflict. Her husband wasn't half the threat she was.  
  
He picked up a piece of bread and munched on it halfheartedly, thinking about exactly what she said he had been... how to get out of the Mansion and far away from them and their high moral code. Whether he went back to Seattle and his usual profession as an assassin was still in the air, though he found he didn't long for it like he had before the whole ordeal had begun.  
  
He perversely wished to meet up with Wolverine again, simply for the sake of yet another rematch. He probably wasn't up to par on strength, but he could move quickly enough and he was itching for motion outside of the daily exercising. Itching for a battle, even if Logan did walk out of it alive. He cast his thoughts back to other battles they had, smiling briefly at the memories. Sabretooth and Wolverine. Victor and Logan. At one time best friends, and now worst enemies. Sometimes he missed it when they weren't at each others throats. Most of the time, he didn't.  
  
He remembered a little more than he had. Creed was slowly working on it, slowly working on putting it all together where it could be seen and accessed. A long process, to be sure; it would take more effort than he wanted to think about to undo a lifetime's worth of damage. But he wasn't giving up... not this time.  
  
Frowning, he stood and paced the length of the cell. He had to get out of there if he was ever going to track down the leads he was getting. That cell was driving him stir-crazy. It was getting more and more difficult to fight back the urge to tackle Hank or Jean next time they appeared and force one of them to open the door. He might have, were he not so concerned with getting kicked to the government before absolutely necessary.  
  
Once remanded to the feds, it would be a nightmare. He was deemed dangerous enough for maximum security, and insane enough to warrant restraints and sedation. If that happened... he shivered thinking about it. Thinking about years upon years drugged half out of his mind and at the mercy of some zit-faced prison guard made Vic about as uneasy as he could get. That wasn't life in any sense, and even locked in the X-Mansion was better. At least they served decent food sometimes.  
  
Pacing a little more anxiously, he ran both hands through his hair. Stone walls indeed, and likely a bunch of big prison buddies more than willing to take advantage of a half-witted and restrained victim. Fuck, no... he had his taste of violation, and it would be with him until he was in the grave. To have to endure that humiliation again was enough to make him wish he was stupid enough to try suicide. But he didn't want to die, not without getting a fight out of it.  
  
  
  
Two days later found Sabretooth so restless he was practically radiating anxiety and anger. Hank hadn't commented on it, though he had worried over it and leaned a little more on Xavier to grant a bigger cell. Eventually the Professor agreed, however reluctantly, and Beast went down with Phoenix to offer the good news. "Creed?"  
  
Victor looked up from his tense pacing, having already heard and smelled them approaching. "Whaddya want?"  
  
Hank frowned, watching the back and forth trek. "We're here to move you someplace bigger."  
  
"Finally get th' hoverin' hypocrite ta agree?" Creed stopped pacing after a moment, still rigid through with pent-up energy.  
  
"Watch it, buster," Jean said, scowling and keying in the code to drop the forcefield.  
  
Sabretooth waited meekly enough, stepping out when the field was down and looking around. A subtle sniff told him that there were no other X-Men in the immediate vicinity, and that neither of them were scared, though Beast was his usual jittery self. He allowed them to escort, walking carefully to keep them from getting suspicious.  
  
As they neared a branch in the labyrinth of hallways through the subbasements, Creed moved on instinct. He whirled, slamming a fist into Jean's head so swiftly that she didn't even have time to let out a startled cry. He turned again in a leap, landing on Hank who was shocked almost beyond words.  
  
"Get me outta here," Victor whispered, pinning Hank's arms down with such adrenaline induced strength he was almost cutting off circulation to the furry wrists.  
  
"I can't," Beast gasped, dismay running across his face at the betrayal he should have expected. Inwardly he cursed his own naivety, and Creed for using it so well. He closed his eyes, waiting for the rip of claw and fang.  
  
Creed ground his teeth together in frustration. "Dammit, McCoy, I'm not gonna jus' let them lock me away fer the rest of my life. Now ya get me outta here, 'cause I don't have a problem tearin' yer head off."  
  
Hank swallowed hard, hearing the note of pleading he doubted Sabretooth was even aware of. Forcing himself to take an even tone, he replied, "Think about what you're doing, Creed... _think about it_. There are so many security precautions between here and the outside world you would be dead before you even got to the ground floor."  
  
"Know what? Yer right." Sabretooth stood abruptly, hauling Hank up by the collar of the labcoat. "Guess that means you an' me are goin' fer a walk, huh?"  
  
Hank tried to pull away and the violent grip grabbed him around the throat in a choke hold. He coughed, ceasing in his struggles before he ended up having his windpipe crushed.  
  
"Which way?" Creed asked, looking from one hall to the next. Hell, they had to make the place like a garden maze...  
  
Beast gestured weakly, allowing himself to be dragged. *Hank?* Xavier's mind-voice asked, fearfully.  
  
*It's Creed, Charles, he's escaping* Hank thought back, *with me as a hostage.*  
  
*I'll send the X-Men down. Try to keep him from getting off of that floor.*  
  
*Yes, sir.* Outloud, the scientist choked, "Please... can't breathe."  
  
Sabretooth loosened his grip only a hair, just enough to let Hank breathe without giving any real leverage. "What'd Chuckles have ta say?"  
  
"He isn't aware," Beast protested, gesturing down another corridor.  
  
"You suck at lyin'," Creed snarled, briefly tightening the grip again to emphasize the point before turning down the opposite direction Hank had pointed.  
  
Hank winced, trying to pull away again after what seemed like an eternity of being yanked. He was shocked when Creed actually let him go, shoving him against the wall and slamming his fists on either side of McCoy's head, nearly denting the alloy. He then realized it was because they were at the dead end by the labs and that the sounds of the team running through the floor could be heard. "Dammit, I did what I could to be fair and this is the repayment I get?" Hank asked, getting angry now that he wasn't afraid of being handed his own windpipe like his alter self.  
  
"What th' fuck am I supposed ta do, huh?!" There was no mistaking the desperation there, the wild need to be out of the cell, out of the mansion, someplace far away. "Let the lot o' ya cart me off ta prison?!"  
  
"What other choice are you giving us?!" Hank countered, taking a big risk with his life and shoving Creed away.  
  
Sabretooth stepped back, flicking his claws out and baring his fangs. "I don't get a choice, an' neither should you."  
  
The X-Men couldn't be more than a hundred yards away now, and Hank stepped closer. "You made your choice when you became a monster, Sabretooth. Are you smart enough to let that go and give up now, or would you prefer having _my_ blood on your hands as well?"  
  
Victor narrowed his eyes, jaw knotted. "Damn you," he whispered, violently. He was desperate, but not so desperate or ungrateful as to kill Beast. But Hank had played his cards, and now the hand was even. Slowly, hate shining as hot and bright as a super nova, he stepped back again and retracted his claws. "Don't expect me ta hold back next time, _Beast_."  
  
The X-Men skidded around the corner, and Cyclops took his usual position as Xavier's puppet. "Give it up, Sabretooth."  
  
"Consider it given up," Creed answered, coolly, his eyes still locked with Hank's. When the scientist looked away, eyes closed, he turned and held out his hands.  
  
  
  
_It seemed dark and dreary. The mirrors were even silent, as so many of them stood now in walls, painstakingly pieced together and carefully arranged. More single mirrors were there as well, in various states from intact to glittering dust.  
  
He paced his house of mirrors, muttering to himself in growling tones, "Always a fuckin' price, ain't there? Every single goddamned time." He stopped for a moment. "Damn you, McCoy, you son of a bitch. Hear that?! DAMN YOU!" Silently he added to himself, "I almost trusted you, an' I never should have."  
  
Still raging, he tried to literally take his mind off of the double betrayal, both the one he committed, and the one Hank had. Had he been more reasonable, he might have noted his own behavior, but it wasn't so much the lying or the tricking that pissed him off, it was the fact Hank had used the leverage he had gained to have Creed locked away again. Always a price for some kindness, and now Hank had been paid his due.  
  
Even at a boiling point, he was careful not to break any glass as he went back to arranging. He had all but two pieces for the memory of Birdy's death, and the conversation preceding that, and now he was carefully sifting through the others to find one of those. The other was cracked, and he was missing the one right before that conversation.  
  
He moved one aside of Black Ops, and another of a trip to France. He wove through, noting some for later, and finally found it way in the back, in the near blackness. Kneeling, he looked at it carefully. It was whole, and he lifted it to carry back to the final place.  
  
Trying not to get too hopeful, he set it carefully between the solid bridge and the final, cracked mirror, then stepped back. With the precision of normal, it began to flow, began to consume. It seemed to take an eternity, but that was only in his mind, as all of it was. Then it came together, and the last mirror solidified... undamaged and whole.  
  
"You can't kill him! He might really be your son!"  
  
"So?"  
  
"How will you ever know if you don't talk to him, huh?!"  
  
He watched himself sling the kid aside and turn to her. "Look, babe, I know enough ta tell ya he ain't the one with the answers."  
  
What answers...?  
  
"But he knows who does have them," she said, staggering slightly from wounds she had gotten earlier. "This is your chance, Mister Creed..."  
  
The mirror showed him walking over and picking Graydon up, and then it went back to the normal frustrating line of conversation and image. The knife, the moment she died speaking his name...  
  
...why did he stagger like that? Just a stumble, so slight that he almost didn't catch it. A brief widening of the eyes, a small step backwards. Then the normal memory again.  
  
Frowning, he turned away from the mirror, trying to absorb what he heard, work it out, and puzzle over the minute slip of composure. What had happened? What answers? What was she talking about? What had happened in that moment?  
  
So many questions, and no more answers... not yet. And, harshly enough, maybe not ever.  
  
  
_  
Victor looked down at the shackles on his hands dully, almost like he didn't understand. Muzzled and chained again, locked behind a now doubled forcefield in a still-too-small cell, and with the knowledge that even a very clever maneuver wouldn't be enough to save him from his fate. His shoulders were slumped in defeat and general lack of will, eyes half-glazed from the monotony and the sedatives they saw fit to give him at night. It was enough to break most men, and nearly enough to break one who had survived worse prisons.  
  
He didn't look up when Hank looked in, didn't even acknowledge the other man's presence. His gaze was firmly fixed on the dull metal, gleaming even in the low light, tauntingly reminding him that there would most likely never be freedom again.  
  
Beast shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. He had stopped by the past two days since the incident, and never got a response. He wouldn't admit that he missed the conversation, or the occasional joke, but he did. Mostly, Hank felt guilty... guilty of a crime he didn't really commit, guilty for everything said. He hadn't been in the wrong, but it didn't make seeing Creed so damn listless any easier. Taking a deep breath, he said slowly, "Val will be here tomorrow morning to retrieve you."  
  
Vic didn't move, but that might as well have been the death knell. Hopelessness dug its claws in deeper, far sharper than his own, and he felt it hit bitterly.  
  
"There may be a place for you outside of prison," Beast continued, trying to sound reassuring. "Government service, perhaps. It doesn't have to be the end, you know." He clenched his teeth. "At least say something."  
  
"Go th' fuck away." Vic said, quietly and thickly.  
  
"I... I'm sorry, Creed." Hank murmured, then walked away.  
  
Victor closed his eyes.  
  



	7. Part VI

  
  
Hank walked back into his lab, so knotted up that he knew sleep was impossible. Frowning deeply, he started working on some data he had set aside recently, but his heart certainly wasn't in it. He came to that conclusion not too long after he began, then flipped the monitor off and leaned back in the dark room, rubbing his eyes.  
  
How long he had been working on the Legacy Virus was a testament to his determination, but it was hard to work after being kidnapped, and after having his life ripped from him, even if only on a temporary basis. He hated himself for putting it off, and hated himself for allowing the situation with Sabretooth effect his research.  
  
Champion of fundamental beliefs.  
  
The more he knew, the more Beast saw how fitting that description was. There was a monster there, but the monster wasn't all of Creed, just a part. The man was actually admirable, from the dignity he seemed to hold onto like a life-raft to the sarcastic but clever humor. Even the animal side was amazing -- all instinct and hyper-senses, and the same nobility all animals possessed to some degree. But the monster... the monster killed for pleasure, for profit, for no good reason.  
  
Hank sighed, trying to drop that line of thought, but he wasn't having any luck. He thought back to their discussion of prisons, and of mind over matter, and it didn't surprise him when he realized that they would never agree. Hank was able to see beyond to the next level of human thought... Creed was as basic as they came, and taking his freedom wouldn't bring back the dead. It may save others from the same fate, however, and that was why Beast went along with it. But even as he reassured himself it was the right thing to do, he felt the sting of compassion. It may save others, but it would undoubtedly kill Sabretooth, mentally if not physically.  
  
Was it worth it? He had been perfectly reasonable until he was locked in the basement. Hank could even understand Creed's violent response to Xavier sneaking into his mind, even though he still wasn't sure he agreed with it. Then they had stuck him down in the basement, and things had slowly gone downhill.  
  
No, it wouldn't do to entertain those thoughts. Hank sighed again, driving himself crazy. He remembered how close to breaking Sabretooth had been the Dark Beast's cell, and it was nothing compared to how unfocused and shattered he seemed earlier that evening. Just... forlorn. It made anyone with a heart hurt, seeing someone who had fought so hard for freedom about to be locked away forever.  
  
_"Do you want to repent for your crimes?"  
  
"Right now, all I want is somethin' resemblin' peace."_  
  
So many found that inner peace in prisons -- people who had killed and raped, who had no other chance for redemption. Hank tried to console himself on that count as well, but he knew better. He knew that there would never be peace for Creed, not now. Not locked away, living what could only fairly be described as a caged life, like the tigers in the zoo who pace so restlessly, looking to the other side, to freedom. They were kept behind bars, for they would kill to be free.  
  
The tiger in the basement probably would as well.  
  
But he hadn't. He had his chance to take Hank down, though it might have meant his life. But he didn't.  
  
Hank stood, walking out and starting towards the floor below and the cell. He wasn't sure why he was going, but he wouldn't know peace himself if he didn't.  
  
The walk didn't take as long as it felt, and he looked in. A week ago, Creed would have been wide awake and surprisingly civil. Now he was just silent, laying with one shackled hand outstretched and eyes closed. Beast cleared his throat, hoping to get a response, but he knew better. Sabretooth wasn't about to talk to him or anyone else, and Beast couldn't blame him for it. He punched in the door code allowing him to walk in, and did so silently.  
  
Still no reaction. Hank frowned, walking over and kneeling, ready to jump if Sabretooth attacked. The attack never came, though, and Creed remained as still and quiet, probably off in a drug-induced sleep. Hank knew he hadn't given him a heavy dose, but under the circumstances, sleeping was probably preferable to pacing... or staring at the shackles with a lifeless look.  
  
Lifeless...  
  
Beast frowned deeper, noting for the first time just how shallow Creed was breathing, his chest barely raising and falling. He checked the other man's pulse, and a rush of alarm nailed him as he realized what was going on. "Dear Lord..."  
  
He was turning himself off. Like a sparrow who had fallen from the nest too young and refused to eat, or a badly wounded animal, he turned his attentions from surviving to dying, like all animals do when they know there's no more fight left. Hank fought back panic, quickly unlocking the muzzle and the shackles, running on instinct. He dealt Sabretooth a slap that normally would have gotten him gutted in an instant. "Dammit, don't do this!" Nothing. Almost shouting, Hank shook Victor hard, "Don't give up, not like this!"  
  
Creed was far beyond hearing.  
  
  
  
_How he managed to find the mirror was something he couldn't guess, with the blinding light flooding in and with his own exhaustion. But he did find it, having stumbled, staggered and crawled until it was close enough. Then he leaned on it, closing his eyes with a heartbroken sigh that echoed softly. He couldn't fight anymore, couldn't find it left in him to do anything more than die.  
  
Under other circumstances, he might have found it ironic. After being tortured by professionals, raped by the Black Beast, and spending decades struggling, all it took was a few bits of metal to break him. But irony was the furthest thing from his mind.  
  
The light felt warm, soothing and honest, unlike so many other things. He found he didn't care what came after that moment, be it Heaven, Hell, or nothingness. Just the light, the mirror, and himself. No cells, no shackles or muzzles, no morals, no fighting. It was almost peace.  
  
The mirror he had searched for, the last seriously coherent thought he had, was not of the peaceful past he still couldn't remember, but of a moment of peace he did. A moment of peace with Birdy laying against him, her legs entwined in his, and her head resting on his shoulder. That was peace which she gave, and which he understood for the first time. He never had before, even if he had appreciated it in a twisted way.  
  
She did because she cared.  
  
He loved her.  
  
It was in such a warped manner, mangled by a brain that had more problems than could be counted. Still, deep in the core and to the most fundamental of things, there was something pure he hadn't known until then. He felt that now, felt it keenly through the fatigue, and it felt like sunlight.  
  
"I made a big mistake, boss, gettin' attached to you. At first it wasn't a problem, y'know? I mean, it's not a problem manipulating someone you can't stand, and not a problem to do your job when you're being paid as well as I was."  
  
He tried to open his eyes, tried to see her, but he couldn't. He was too worn down...  
  
"Then you had ta go and show a glimpse of that damn nobility. Kinda laughable, since nobility didn't equate into killing, but you can't hide that from the person who roams your mind, can you? Then I found the courage and honesty, and then I found your heart and I made the big mistake of getting attached."  
  
"Wha...?" he mumbled, barely able to force even that small sound out.  
  
"I wondered how someone so violent could be so appealing. You made it hard for me to care, Mister Creed, but not impossible. So I broke contract. Now it's costing me my life, and I'm sending this I guess as an explanation. An echo, if that maybe helps you understand it. There's a whole lot of technical names for it... psychic imprints, psi-transfer, and a whole bunch of others." She chuckled, quietly. "Like a recorded, slightly interactive message." Her voice turned more serious again. "But if you're hearing this, boss, it means something bad's happened. Don't know what, but whatever it is, promise me you'll come out of it okay."  
  
He couldn't answer, couldn't promise that. Instead he shook his head slightly, leaned on the mirror so heavily that it alone supported him. He wanted to explain, wanted to tell her why he was giving up and why there wasn't anything left to fight for... he just couldn't find the strength. A moment later, he felt her hand touching his face, tracing along his eyebrow, across his lips, warm and gentle. "You have to promise me, Victor," she said, softly. "Promise me you'll keep fighting."  
  
He tried to tell her no, tried to reply in the negative... he couldn't deny her. He never could, even when it meant letting the man who killed her walk away, son or not. He tried all the time, tried to refuse her, but when she said it and meant it, he never could argue. Finally he nodded. Then she put her arms around him and he felt the sun, and then the silence._  
  
  
  
Coming back to the real world was something he didn't want to do, but Creed finally woke back up. He didn't immediately remember anything, his own name included. Then it came back, piece by piece, and he opened his eyes. Back in the medbay, he noted without much interest. The clock on the wall read four in the morning, and he could hear Hank rummaging around not too far away.  
  
Letting his breath out slowly, he drifted back off, taking more refuge in a dream state than he usually found in real life. Beast startled him out of it not long later though, and he looked at the scientist, unsure of how to interpret the worry, anger and frustration wearing creases into the blue-furred face.  
  
"If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will personally flay you alive with a hot branding iron," Hank said, quietly. He might not have meant it, but it felt good to say it anyway.  
  
Victor frowned to himself, rubbing his eyes. He really wasn't in the mood to talk, particularly with Cooper coming to get him in a matter of a few hours. "Might as well take me back ta my 'guestroom', McCoy."  
  
Beast growled, resisting the urge to slap the other man silly. "Are you so much a coward, Sabretooth, that you're willing to face death before facing repentance?"  
  
Creed sighed... he didn't feel like fighting or listening to a lecture, either. Carefully he got up, taking a moment to steady himself. "Let it drop."  
  
"I will _not_ let it drop!" Hank said, fiercely. "I will not just ignore your little brush with death!"  
  
"Let. It. Drop." Victor turned, giving him a look that normally didn't allow for argument. "It's none o' yer damn business ta begin with, an' if ya weren't so fuckin' self-centered, ya woulda left me to it."  
  
"Self-centered?! That's truly the pot calling the kettle black and round, Creed. I'm not the one who wanted to throw my life away because I was too afraid to face punishment for my crimes."  
  
Sabretooth snarled, righteously stung. "Afraid? Boy, yer head's up yer ass further than I thought, now ain't it?"  
  
Hank took a step closer, his fists balled up. "What would you call it?"  
  
"None o' yer fuckin' business!"  
  
"Answer me! What would you call it?!"  
  
Creed narrowed his eyes, teeth bared. "I told ya, an' if ya have an ounce of common sense, you'll let it go."  
  
"No." Hank leapt after Vic so fast he wasn't anything more than a streak of blue, and barreled into the lighter man. They crashed over a bed, landing on the floor, and Beast pinned Creed down. "Tell me."  
  
"No!" Sabretooth shot back, struggling to get loose and get his wind back all at the same time. "Ya don't let me go, an' I'll--"  
  
"Kill me? Cut me open? It'll certainly be better than watching you destroy yourself," Hank said, dropping his voice slightly. "Now answer me, Creed, or we'll be here until you do."  
  
"Whaddya wanna know?! That I'd rather be dead than locked away? Rather be wormfood than chained down?! Big fuckin' revelation!" Victor struggled harder, blazing mad.  
  
"Does it bother you that badly? Does freedom mean that much to you?" Hank asked, leaning closer, his eyes burning equally bright and twice as intense.  
  
Victor stopped fighting, suddenly tired, and looked away. After a moment, he looked back up and muttered, "Yea."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"'Cause freedom an' peace go hand in hand... don't have one, an' I'll never have th' other."  
  
Hank stood, brushing himself off. Sighing heavily, he offered a hand down, but wasn't surprised to have it ignored. "We'd better get you back downstairs."  
  
A bitter bark of a laugh was all Creed would give, standing again and starting for the door. Hank followed a moment later, and they walked almost like friends might walk, though it was doubtful they would ever call the other that. The halls were empty, echoing the footfalls, and the near silence crackled with thoughts and emotions running rampant.  
  
Victor wasn't sure what exactly he was feeling. He partly wanted to slip back into his little daze, unfeeling and unthinking, and partly wanted to rage at the world and those who would lock him away again. In a nutshell, he was confused -- knotted up and only partly able to think in assembled thoughts.  
  
Beast, on the other hand, was fairly sure he knew what he was thinking, and it was a war the entire way. The idea formed, teased, and otherwise urged him in a direction he would normally never consider. Whether it was fatigue guiding the thoughts, or some other influence, he would never know. But before they turned to the hall, he stopped. Vic looked back after another pace or two, expectantly, and Hank shook his head. Frowning for a moment, he said, "Up for a walk?"  
  
Vic shrugged, walking back, and he followed Hank. The notion of escape played around in the back of his mind, but he doubted he would get very far if he tried, and he didn't have the heart left to make a break for it. Idly wondering what McCoy was doing and why, he meekly allowed himself to be led along through the maze of halls.  
  
  
  
It was midsummer, a fact that Victor was actually surprised to find out. He had lost track of time so badly in the past several months that he wasn't sure when it was, but the sound of birds chirping in the early hours, just before dawn, was oddly reassuring. He followed, stepping lightly and certainly, his senses collecting and filtering all of the scents of morning and land, and of the approaching sunlight. Grass, dirt, trees rustling... a rabbit in the bush that he briefly considered chasing down... everything sounded and felt alive.  
  
Alive... heh.  
  
A brief moment of bitterness was chased away by the sensation of mist, swirling low in the half-light. He forgot so often to notice nature, and in ways nature had turned away from him when he became the monster. The animal was welcome, the man was watched warily -- the monster was outright rejected.  
  
There was nothing resentful in the morning air, though. He still didn't know what Hank was doing, be it a last hurrah or whatever, but it didn't matter in that moment. Down the way, down a path, out by the lake. The sun was coming up, and dawn was showing it's banner of color, reds and oranges flickering across the sky and the few clouds.  
  
"Val will be here in two hours," Hank said, quietly. He glanced over, noting the almost communion with nature -- it reminded him of Storm, but at least Creed didn't strip to appreciate it.  
  
"Yep," Victor answered, neutrally.  
  
"You won't be."  
  
Creed looked over, briefly narrowing his eyes. "Whaddya mean, I won't be? Ya think the twits'll jus' let me walk away?"  
  
"They won't be up for another hour, and knowing you, that's more than enough time to hide." Beast looked back at the sky.  
  
Sabretooth frowned before looking back at dawn himself, partly mulling the words over and partly just paying attention to sunrise. "Why?"  
  
"If I knew exactly, I would be more than willing to tell you," Hank murmured, wryly. "Selfish reasons, though. I doubt I would be able to forgive myself if I left you to your fate."  
  
"Didn' stop ya earlier," Creed grumbled, bitterly. He wished he could put more of an edge on his voice.  
  
"...momentary clash of beliefs. Are you going to stand here all day?"  
  
Sabretooth looked from the path out to the sunrise, then back at the path. Damn, but he wanted to believe it was going to be that easy, to just walk out. Life was never that easy, though. It was a constant struggle, one that he was almost scared to take on again. For years he had been a pawn, first to the government, then to his own darkness, and taking on control was just as terrifying as it was exciting.  
  
The sun broke through, cutting a path across a field and burning low and red. In the end, it was the light that made the decision -- he didn't think he could take losing it again. Slowly and almost tentatively, he walked away.  
  
"Sabretooth?" Hank asked, and watched Vic stop. The question was a mixed one... he was asking if Sabretooth was going to be the monster, or the man and animal. He was asking, basically, if he would regret letting him go.  
  
Creed turned around briefly, shoulders set and for the first time in a long time, he lifted his chin proudly. He answered all of the questions as well as he could, not entirely knowing the solutions himself. "Victor."  
  
Hank nodded, and they parted ways.  
  
  



	8. Epilogue

_  
  
The room stretched long, completely illuminated not by one window, but by a row of windows. If one could imagine the sanctuary of a church minus the pews and alter, filled with nothing but mirrors, and brightly lit by sunlight, they could imagine this.  
  
He surveys this domain, which passes both for his memories and for his retreat; a place where it becomes slowly clearer, a place where there's nothing but the most fundamental. The essential. It will take years to piece everything together, and decades to learn the complete truth. For now, that can wait. For now, it's enough that he knows how much effort and patience it'll take, and for the first time that he can actively remember, he doesn't shy away from it.  
  
He idly thinks about the price for peace -- the cost being the retrieval of memories he would rather forget. But to find himself he has to look at those, and everything else. When it's all over, hopefully before he's long gray, it'll be worth it. Still, there's time for that later.  
  
Her echo graces the walls, the floors, the high ceiling, and if he listens hard enough, he can hear her laughing at some joke. He doesn't laugh with her, but he smiles a real smile, untwisted and light. Then the echoes fade away, back to the mirror they came from.  
  
The whisper could have been imagined, or dreamt, or maybe it was real. He would never know.  
  
"See ya later, boss..."_  
  
  
  
Northern Canada was beginning to cool off, the nights bringing frost that it seemed to take longer and longer for the morning sun to burn away. It was a quiet place, though, a quiet town if there ever was one. One bar, one church, a post office, a Canadian Park office to regulate the logging industry, a diner, a gas station or two, and one general store. It was a town for people who wanted to be unknown.  
  
Not that they were exactly unknown to each other. Most of the people living in the little logging town were running from something, and Victor fit all too well into that category. No one questioned his appearance there, nor did they question his fanged grin and generally unsocial attitude.  
  
He had gotten away from the X-Men without as much trouble as he had expected. From there, it had been a trip to New York City, and to a small graveyard where his former sidekick was left with only a small cross and her name marking she ever existed, the type of place people who had no home or family ended up. Birdy was there, but she was very well remembered by the man who had been her boss, her lover, and even occasionally her friend.  
  
He had knelt there, mind wandering across the memories he had been painstakingly ordering. Because of her. Because she made him promise, and he wouldn't break a promise to her. He still didn't have all of the pieces of the puzzle revolving around the little blonde telepath, but they would come with time. What he knew now was enough.  
  
The keeper of the stones might have wondered when he came in the next morning where the carved claw marks came from, an admission in marble.  
  
_"I love you."_  
  
After that, it was Seattle, hitchhiking until he got home to his mansion there. He hadn't stayed longer than a night, just long enough to get some essential paperwork, a few clothes, and the keys to his pickup. Then it was north. He hadn't known where he was going, but when he ended up in that town it rung familiar. Finding a cabin off in the trees had added another piece.  
  
The logging company picked him up without a question, not even bothering with an application, and he worked a good six days a week, from dawn to dusk. Sometimes he went to the bar, got into a fight, but nowadays he just sent people to the hospital rather than the morgue. Needless to say, fighting had tapered off.  
  
Walking up the steps to the post office, he didn't think about anything but the water bill that was due in, and the letter in hand sent to reroute through Seattle to Dallas to Salem Center, and addressed to Hank McCoy. He dreaded walking into that place...  
  
And for good reason. The older woman came around the counter, squealing, "Victor!"  
  
Creed sighed. He had been hoping to avoid the self-appointed mother hen of all single men in town, but she never missed him. "That's me," he said, unnecessarily, disengaging himself from her carefully.  
  
"I haven't seen you in weeks, where have you been hiding? Why, I even brought cookies for you and the other boys, but you make yourselves so scarce," the lady chattered, taking his arm and half-pulling him to his box.  
  
"Been kinda busy, Ruth," Victor defended, trying uselessly to pull away. Why he put up with being manhandled was beyond him, but the last time he had growled at her, she had chewed his ears off. It wasn't worth the browbeating to just get his flippin' mail. Besides, she did make good cookies, and she was just like him... running away from something bad and hopefully to something better. Getting his arm free finally, he unlocked the mailbox and tossed aside a few pieces of junk... damn, junkmail even plagued the Great White North.  
  
Ruth took the letter, walking back to her station. "I'll make more. How's the work coming on your home?"  
  
"Slow," he replied, trying not to sound too terribly short tempered. It wasn't easy.  
  
"I'm always willing to help, sweetie. I can handle a hammer with the best of them," she offered, stamping the letter and putting it in the appropriate slot to be sorted later. Mail service in that region wasn't exactly swift.  
  
Creed made a quick break for the door, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll keep that in mind!" Yea, right... when pigs flew on the wings on angels.  
  
  
  
_McCoy,  
  
No one's dead yet. Mail service sucks. Work's not bad. Getting cold up here. Anyone miss me?  
  
Creed_  
  
Hank set the letter aside, chuckling slightly to himself. No, he couldn't say anyone missed Sabretooth, though they had went hunting for him. But without a blood trail to follow, they hadn't had much luck. Hank had certainly come under some fire, mostly from the newer members, and he had been reprimanded quite heavily by Scott and the Professor. He was expecting more than that, though, and he was surprised when Jean came to his aid after the bruises she had gotten from Creed.  
  
Eventually the weeks went on, though, and people forgot about Victor as much as they ever did. Hank went back to his research, spending more and more time in the lab, and they were on a good trail. Getting this particular letter was a break from the constant effort of finding the cure to the Legacy Virus, and he smiled, picking up a piece to write a reply. He was surprised that Vic had trusted him enough to put his address in the envelope, though only a doctor would be able to read that sort of handwriting anyway. The least he could do was answer.  
  
_Victor,  
  
I honestly cannot say that we particularly miss your sunny disposition, wonderful and colorful use of language, and general presence, but I will venture to say that it gets lonely sometimes in the wee hours with no one to argue with. I hope that the mail service improves, and may winter bring good fortune. Take care.  
  
Hank_  
  
_"He who lives in harmony with himself lives in harmony with the universe." -- Marcus Aurelius  
_  
  
  
  
Crossing the narrow road from the post office, boots crunching in the snow, Vic hopped into his pickup and headed back home. It was a good half-hour drive, the roads were less pavement and more dirt, but it was as secluded as he could get and still make it to work on time. Pulling up next to the log cabin, he shut the ignition off and walked up the steps, opening the letter from Hank with a claw.  
  
It wasn't a long letter by any stretch, but then, he hadn't written much to the scientist in the first place. He unfolded the paper, smiling slightly when he read it, then tucked it into one pocket and opened the door.  
  
What was left of a fire still glowed slightly in the stone fireplace, and though the room wasn't heavily furnished, it still had a distinct feel of home. _His_ home. A few pictures sat on the mantle, most of them of Birdy or the two of them together, and a newspaper article about Hank that was framed. He didn't dwell on why he kept it, since it made no sense to him, but it was a whim of a decision.  
  
Tossing a few more logs in the fireplace he then went back and flopped on the couch. The fire crackled and sparked, catching, the smell there but not overpowering, even to him. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, intending to nap on his day off. He had earned that much; a rest from the near constant struggle of man and animal versus monster. How long it would last didn't matter -- maybe the battle would rage forever.  
  
Maybe not.  
  
For now, the sun breaking through the gray clouds was enough.  
  
------------------------------  
  
_Comin' down the years turn over,  
And angels fall without you there,  
And I'll go on now and lead you home and,  
All because I'm... all because I'm...  
  
I'll become what you became to me._  
  
_-Goo Goo Dolls, Black Balloon  
_


End file.
